3525 

MI2.51 


[BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 


Commodore  Byron  McCandless 


O/YlCU 


NATANA 


fmtrtra 


Hargarrt  fftll  Urdarirr 


Crane  C5J,  Company 

Topeka,  Kan. 

1908 


Copyright  by 

Crane  &  Company,  Topeka,  Kansas) 
1908. 


•THIS   BRIEF  TALE   OF   A   HALF- FORGOTTEN   YESTERDAY 
IS   DEDICATED  TO   MY   SISTER, 

iCtzztp  ifiU  Williams. 


«TN 


all  this  crowded  universe 

There  is  but  one  stupendous  Word; 

And  huge  and  rough,  or  trimmed  and  terse, 
Its  fragments  build  and  undergird 

The  songs  and  stories  we  rehearse. 


^HERE  is  no  tree  that  rears  its  crest, 
No  fern  or  flower  that  cleaves  the  sod, 

No  bird  that  sings  above  its  nest, 
But  tries  to  speak  this  Word  of  God, 

And  dies  when  it  has  done  its  best. 


"A 


ND  this  Great  Word,  all  words  above, 

Including,  yet  defying  all  — 
Soft  as  the  crooning  of  a  dove, 

And  strong  as  the  Archangel's  call  — 
Means  only  this — means  only  Love  !  " 

—Holland. 


"And  even  now  when  the  night  comes,  and  the  shad 
ows  gather  round, 

And  you  tell  the  old-time  story,  I  can  almost  hear  the 
sound 

Of  the  horses'  hoofs  in  the  silence,  and  the  voices  of 
struggling  men; 

For  the  night  is  the  same  forever,  and  the  time  comes 


back  again.' 


JAMES  W.  STEELE. 


^^  _  T  may  have  been  a  dream, 
*'  *:  »  yet  it  was  so  real  it  was  as 
the  blending  of  light  and 
shadow,  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other,  but  both  in  one.  And 
it  was  so  natural  and  full  of  pulsing 
life  the  dreamer  caught  in  it  no  hint 
of  mystic  unreality;  nor  then  nor 
ever  afterward  did  the  memory  of  it 
seem  other  than  as  a  living  tapestry 
gracing  the  outer  walls  of  yesterday. 

It  was  a  Kansas  Christmas  Eve. 

.(7) 


3I« 


The  sun  of  a  grand  December  day 
had  swung  down  through  a  sea  of 
crystal  radiance,  and  lay  now  for 
one  brief  moment  on  the  rim  of  the 
world  in  a  last  rich  chrism  of  benefi 
cent  glory.  A  moment  later,  and 
the  sun  was  gone,  but  far  up  the  sky 
there  shot  long  slender  shafts  of 
pink  that  touched  each  little  float 
ing  cloud  with  beauty.  And  while 
the  twilight  deepened  below,  the 
light  overhead  held  sway  for  a  brief 
time  longer.  Its  reflection  bent 
earthward  and  caught  the  projecting 
points  of  the  landscape  in  its  scope. 
Highest  of  all  these  was  the  dome  of 
the  Kansas  Capitol,  through  whose 
broad  windows  the  last  rays  of  day 
light  fell.  They  illumined  the  great 
inner  concave  of  the  dome  and  drove 
back  the  shadows  of  the  upper  cor 
ridor  that  had  gathered  boldly  even 
before  sunset. 

(8) 


Outside,  the  pink  grew  suddenly 
dull,  the  light  went  out,  and  a  gray 
twilight  passed  into  a  darkness  that 
the  stars  pointed  up  with  their  far 
cold  fires. 

In  the  upper  corridor  the  light 
tarries  longest,  as  if  to  guard  what 
gold  cannot  duplicate.  For  here  are 
gathered  the  historic  emblems  of  a 
commonwealth,  the  treasure'- trove 
of  Time,  cast  up  by  the  fleeting 
years.  When  the  light  has  quite 
gone  from  the  sky  the  shadows  here 
are  gray  and  dreamy  before  they 
deepen  into  darkness.  On  this 
Christmas  Eve  the  corners  of  the 
corridor,  the  hangings  on  the  walls, 
the  busts  and  their  pedestals,  and 
the  cases  of  precious  historic  relics 
did  not  lose  outline  and  blend  into 
dull  featureless  space.  Instead,  the 
glow  of  twilight  lingered  and  a  soft 
radiance  filled  all  the  place.  This 

(9) 


that  follows  is  only  a  trick  of  the 
dreamer's  memory,  and  to  the 
dreamer  it  was  genuine  and  sweet 
with  inspiration. 

Today  slipped  back  into  yesterday. 
As  in  a  wide  panorama  down  the 
vista  of  years  came  the  pictures  of 
the  Past  whose  symbols  are  here  in 
the  gray  shadows.  A  soft  light  like 
an  aureole  was  about  the  bust  of  old 
John  Brown,  whose  head  modeled 
in  clay  is  not  unlike  a  Greek  hero's. 
And  it  was  in  this  light  that  there 
grew,  from  far  faint  outlines  at  first, 
a  picture  deep  and  intensely  real. 
The  halls  of  the  corridor  stretched 
away  till  they  compassed  the  valleys 
of  the  Kaw,  the  Neosho,  and  the 
Marais  des  Cygnes,  with  their  wooded 
ravines,  their  sparsely  cultivated 
prairies,  and  the  log  cabins  of  the 
pioneers  —  the  first  home-builders  of 
the  West. 

(10) 


And  farther  in  the  picture's  purple 
distance  lay  the  level  floors  of  the 
short-grass  country  over  which,  wan 
dering  eastward,  came  the  Smoky 
Hill  and  the  Cimarron.  And  beyond 
all  these,  sloping  away  into  a  never- 
ending  barrenness  under  a  pitiless 
sky,  stretched  an  unbilled  land  cut 
ting  an  unbroken  horizon -line.  And 
everywhere  loneliness  and  poverty 
joined  hands  with  monotony  and 
isolation,  in  their  determination  to 
fight  back  the  first  white  settler  here. 
In  the  foreground. the  picture  grew 
lurid,  for  this  was  the  time  of  Border 
Strife.  The  fires  of  burning  homes 
glared  savagely  up  at  a  black  mid 
night  sky.  The  sunshine  on  the 
prairies  turned  sickly  pale  as  it  fell 
upon  the  sod  splotched  with  the 
blood  of  brave  heroes  and  innocent 
victims. 

And  then  the  picture  faded,  and 
(ID 


the  gray  twilight  in  folds  of  shimmer 
ing  softness  draped  all  the  place  with 
its  filmy  hangings. 

But  this  was  not  the  beginning 
here.  A  Past,  back  of  this  Past,  had 
its  own  story  to  tell.  On  these  cor 
ridor  walls  hang  portraits  of  sainted 
faces,  the  faces  of  the  men  and  wo 
men  who  foreran  the  white  settler 
and  brought  the  story  of  the  blessed 
Gospel  to  the  savage  folk  whom  they 
called  their  "brothers  in  Christ." 

It  was  only  a  wilderness  to  which 
they  came,  these  good  men  and  wo 
men  whose  portraits  were  wreathed 
about  by  the  dim  curtains  of  the 
twilight.  Here  and  there  a  lonely 
trail  led  across  the  plain  toward  the 
Grand  Prairie,  the  common  hunting- 
ground  of  the  wild  tribes. 

To  the  dreamer  at  that  moment 
the  Kansas  of  this  bygone  time  came 
again.  In  the  log  mission  house  were 


(12) 


3ltt  ®lfc  (potato 


the  men  and  women  who  had  con 
secrated  their  lives  to  a  cause. 
Bravely  they  had  set  their  faces 
westward  and  without  once  looking 
back  they  took  hold  of  the  slow,  dis 
couraging  labor  in  a  strange  and  iso 
lated  land.  Father  and  Mother 
Meeker,  Father  and  Mother  Simer- 
well,  and  all  the  little  company  of 
Christian  missionaries  were  here, 
again  living  over  their  struggles  for 
the  Red  Man's  welfare.  And  with 
these  and  beyond  them  were  the  holy 
men  in  priestly  garb — Father  Pon- 
ziglone,  Father  Schoenmacher ;  and 
earlier  than  these  were  Van  Quick- 
enborne  and  Meigs  of  reverend  high 
calling.  In  the  tepees  of  the  native 
tribes  these  godly  men  set  up  the 
altar  of  the  sacred  Church,  and  the 
worship  of  Gitchie  Manitou,  in  its 
uncertainty  and  dread,  gave  place 
to  faith  and  hope  and  love.  And  if 

(  13  ) 


the  hold  of  these  little  ones  on  the 
Christian's  creed  was  only  a  feeble 
grasp,  it  was  a  groping  toward  the 
light,  not  a  groveling  in   darkness. 
But  the  picture  vanished,  and  only 
the  portraits   on  the   walls  looked 
down  in  their  calm  serenity  upon  the 
reverent     dreamer.       Among  them 
there  was  the  young  strong  face  of 
Zebulon  Montgomery  Pike,  gracing 
the  military   dress   that  betokened 
his  official  rank.  As  if  he  had  stepped 
from  the  frame  and  like  Pygmalion's 
"Galatea"  had  become  endued  with 
life,  there  unrolled  about  him  a  scene 
of  heroic  grandeur.     A  hundred  years 
have  come  and  gone  since  that  scene 
out  in  mid-prairie  was  a  part  of  the 
drama  of  the  West.     The  broad  Re 
publican  valley  winding  down  from 
the  north,  cuts  the  picture.     On  the 
heights  above  it  are  the  tepees  of  a 
thousand    Pawnee   warriors,    called 

(14) 


Slit 


together  now  in  portentous  council. 
Over  the  chief's  tepee  floats  the  flag 
of  Spain,  the  emblem  of  Pawnee  alleg 
iance.  Before  this  council  of  stolid, 
sullen  savages  stands  young  Lieuten 
ant  Pike,  erect,  fearless,  every  inch 
a  soldier, —  a  superior  by  instinct,  a 
commander  by  birthright.  He  de 
mands  that  the  Spanish  flag  shall  be 
hauled  down  and  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  be  placed  in  its  stead.  It  is 
the  voice  of  the  indomitable  Saxon 
spirit  that  speaks,  and  the  Red  Man 
must  needs  obey. 

But  the  picture  faded  as  the  others 
had  done,  and  a  new  one  came  in  its 
stead.  It  lies  beyond  the  day  of 
trail  and  trader,  of  missionary  and 
path-maker. 

In  the  corner  of  the  corridor  where 
the  shades  are  deepest  hangs  an  old 
wooden  oar,  such  as  the  Frenchmen 
long  ago  had  used  to  push  back  the 

(15) 


3ltt  ($&  (fmmra 


sluggish  waters  about  their  crude 
pirogues.  Dust  and  ashes  are  the 
hands  that  had  held  it.  Wrecked  or 
lost  or  thrown  aside,  it  had  fallen  on 
an  island  in  the  Kaw.  Some  chance 
flood  may  have  covered  it  with  sand, 
and  year  by  year  a  deepening  soil 
had  buried  it.  Ten  feet  below  the 
surface  it  lay  when  the  busy  bridge 
engineers  digging  for  the  foundations 
of  their  piers  had  found  it.  The 
picture  it  called  up  was  of  the  land 
as  the  roving  French  voyageur  knew 
it,  in  its  primitive  beauty  and  pic 
turesque  savage  life,  full  two  cen 
turies  ago. 

The  tale  this  old  oar  might  have 
told  the  dreamer  would  seem  to  be 
of  the  outer  bound  of  this  story  of 
the  West.  For  what  could  lie  be 
yond  in  the  dim  past  that  the  white 
man  could  fathom?  Behind  it 
seemed  to  stretch  the  long  unknown 

(16) 


years  of  an  unknown  people,  wherein 
tradition  itself  lost  count. 

One  token  there  was  here,  however, 
shut  away  from  the  light  as  its  own 
story  is  held  in  the  grasp  of  the  un 
recorded  years.  In  the  vault  where 
the  most  precious  things  are  kept 
lies  an  old  Spanish  sword  that  some 
where  on  the  far  plains  had  been  lost 
in  the  far -lost  years.  It  had  its 
story,  and  the  dreamer  with  ear 
attuned  to  silent  voices  heard  it  all. 
It  may  have  been  because  this  was 
the  blessed  Christmas  Eve,  when 
Christian  folk  turn  back  the  pages 
tenderly  to  the  holy  night  of  long 
ago  in  Bethlehem.  It  may  have 
been  that  the  dreamer's  own  heart 
was  chastened  and  only  the  best  and 
kindest  things  of  life  seemed  at  that 
moment  worth  while.  Or  it  may 
have  been  that  the  spirit  of  the 
Christ,  abroad  in  the  world  on  this 

(17) 


(fmmra 


Christmastide  as  never  before,  led 
the  dreamer  back  to  the  day  of  its 
first  coming  to  these  prairies  of  the 
West.  Whatever  the  cause,  the  old 
lost  sword  told  a  sweet  story  of  the 
long  ago,  and  through  it  all  the  same 
spirit  that  made  it  good  to  hear 
makes  good  the  stories  of  today, — 
for  it  is  the  spirit  of  an  overshadow 
ing,  unselfish  love,  that  has  the 
universe  for  its  own. 


(18) 


ie/.\^|5^l?e(^ln,tU!t,eyening-time, 
vc  us  the  sky  spread  golden  and  clear, 

bent  his  head  and  looked  in  my  eyes, 
As  if  he  held  me  of  all  most  dear. 


Oh !  it  was  sweet  in  the  evenfnf  time ! ' ' 

T  was  Christmas  Eve  in 
the  province  of  New  Spain 
three  centuries  and  a  half 
ago.  The  little  town  of 
Compostela  was  gay  with  tokens  of 
the  coming  holy -day.  Even  the 
brown  adobe  houses  along  the  nar 
row  streets,  looking  so  like  one  an 
other,  half  Spanish,  half  Aztec, 
seemed  to  radiate  through  their  plain 
mud  walls  a  vibration  of  the  coming 
of  the  year's  best  day.  Compostela, 
like  all  the  towns  and  cities  of  New 
Spain,  was  very  young.  Hardly  a 
score  of  years  had  passed  since  Cortez 

(19) 


3ltt  <®tfi  (firitrira 


had  wrested-  the  kingdom  of  the 
Montezumas  from  its  Aztec  owners 
and  made  it  a  province  of  the  proud 
rich  peninsula  of  Europe.  Yet  in 
these  eighteen  years  Mexico,  with  its 
civilization  centuries  old,  had  learned 
to  the  full  what  the  pale-faced  ruler 
in  coat  of  mail  could  do  with  a  con 
quered  people.  In  the  hoary  old 
city  of  Mexico  Mendoza,  "the  good 
viceroy,"  had  his  seat  of  government. 
From  the  Gulf  to  the  Pacific  coast, 
towns  and  cities  had  grown,  as  if  by 
magic,  on  sandy  plain  and  mild  ver 
dant  mountain-slope.  A  host  of 
Europeans  had  overrun  the  land. 
Greedy  gold-hunters,  gay  adven 
turers,  men  hungry  for  political 
power  or  military  glory ;  men  eager 
to  rebuild  shattered  fortunes  or  re- 
guild  tarnished  reputations;  men 
hiding  in  a  wild  new  land  from  the 
strong  arm  of  the  Spanish  law,  or 

(20) 


3Jtt 


burying  here  the  corpse  of  a  dead 
love,  or  a  blasted  life  ambition,— 
all  went  into  the  making  of  this  new 
province  whose  revenue  poured 
steadily  into  the  coffers  of  church 
and  state  in  Old  Spain. 

The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  on 
this  twenty-fourth  day  of  December, 
in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1539,  when 
a  courier  riding  a  tired  mule  came 
down  the  last  lap  of  narrow  roadway 
and  passed  through  the  town's  east 
ern  gate.  Up  the  main  street  he 
took  his  way  with  the  leisure  of  one 
who  is  ending  a  long  journey  on  time 
and  may  begin  his  vacation  a  little 
in  advance.  Before  the  wide  ve 
randa  of  the  largest  building  in  the 
public  square  he  halted,  and  a  crowd 
at  once  surrounded  him. 

"Ho!  Pedro!  Pedro!"  they  cried 
in  Spanish.  "What  news?  What 
news?" 

(21) 


3ltt  <®to  (f  utmra 


' '  I  could  tell  you  better  if  I  had  a 
drop  of  Madeira  to  wet  my  throat. 
The  last  ships  from  Spain  bring  His 
Majesty's  full  consent  to  the  equip 
ping  and  sending  out  of  an  expedi 
tion  to  conquer  the  Seven  Cities  of 
Cibola  and  the  land  of  Quivira. 
And  Viceroy  Mendoza  is  to  prepare 
for  it  directly  after  the  Christmas- 
tide.  I  bring  many  messages.  I 
am  loaded  with  packets,  as  this 
stubborn  little  mule  could  tell  you. 
Something  for  everybody.  News 
from  home  for  all  of  you,  but  most 
for  Fra  Padilla." 

So  chattered  the  careless  Pedro  to 
the  eager  company,  more  than  one  of 
whom  carried  a  homesick  heart  under 
his  Spanish  dress. 

"Holy  Father,"  said  the  courier, 
bowing  reverently  as  a  man  in  the 
garb  of  a  priest  approached,  "give 
me  your  blessing.  I  bring  you  many 

(22) 


3ln 


letters,  and  some  entrusted  to  your 
care  to  be  given  to  others  by  you 
alone." 

The  good  father  gave  the  blessing, 
received  from  the  courier's  hands  a 
sealed  packet,  and  with  a  wave  of 
benediction  upon  the  crowd  and  a 
smile  no  less  beneficent  than  his 
words,  walked  toward  the  monastery 
at  the  end  of  the  street. 

The  sun  was  very  low  now,  and 
a  crimson  glory  flushed  all  the  west 
ern  sky,  and  bathed  the  misty  peaks 
of  the  Sierra  Madre  with  softest  pink. 
Deep  purple  shadows  were  gathering 
in  the  lower  valleys  as  the  day  came 
to  these  last  hours  of  rich  coloring. 

Just  as  the  courier  had  ridden  his 
weary  beast  up  the  principal  street 
of  the  town,  a  young  man  had  passed 
with  springing  step  out  of  the  west 
ern  city  gate.  Turning  from  the 
road  that  led  down  toward  the  sea, 

(23) 


3ftt  (§tt»  (fmmra 


he  climbed  to  a  small  table-land  over 
looking  the  town  and  the  plain  be 
yond.  The  air  was  balmy  and  sweet 
here,  and  a  scene  of  varied  beauty 
lay  revealed  in  the  sunset  lights. 

To  the  young  Spaniard  sitting  idly 
on  a  shelf  of  rocky  outcrop  the  beauty 
of  the  evening  was  only  a  harmonious 
note  in  his  own  mood.  His  mind  was 
far  away,  and  he  gazed  at  the  valley 
with  eyes  that  saw  only  pictures  of 
memory.  He  was  a  strong,  hand 
some  young  fellow,  with  the  purely 
Spanish  features  and  graceful  motion. 
There  was,  however,  in  his  face  a  cer 
tain  hint  of  tenderness,  a  suggestion 
of  nobleness  of  character  unlike  the 
gay,  cruel-hearted  young  men  of  his 
class  who  filled  New  Spain  with  law 
lessness  and  dissipation  in  these  care 
less  years  of  Spanish  supremacy. 

The  shadows  below  grew  deeper, 
and  the  light  overhead  was  softened 

(124) 


3ltt  <®to  (fututra 


when  up  the  path  to  the  little  shelf  of 
table-land  Fra  Juan  Padilla  passed 
with  strong  firm  step.  He  was  a  man 
of  powerful  build,  who  graced  the 
priestly  garb  he  wore.  There  was  in 
his  physique  no  suggestion  of  the 
corpulence  of  gross  living.  Erect  as 
a  military  commander,  his  clear  olive 
skin,  his  white  teeth,  his  firm  square 
chin  and  penetrating  dark  eyes  be 
tokened  the  soldier  of  official  rank. 
But  his  churchly  dress,  his  broad  hat, 
and  his  smile  of  exceeding  sweetness, 
as  if  a  sense  of  power  over  men  were 
swayed  by  a  deep  love  for  humanity, 
gave  him  the  air  of  one  whose  bless 
ing  came  as  a  gift  from  God. 

His  face  in  the  evening  light  was 
calm  and  his  poise  was  undisturbed. 
Only  a  faint  line  about  the  mouth, 
and  a  look  of  deeper  penetration, 
gave  any  hint  of  a  stronger  feeling 
than  daily  controlled  him. 

(25) 


"Good-evening,  Tristan  Gallego. 
Do  I  intrude,  my  son  ?  Where  were 
your  thoughts  at  this  moment  that 
you  did  not  see  me  when  my  shadow 
cut  off  your  sunset  here  ?" 

Tristan  Gallego  looked  up  quickly. 

"Good-evening,  Father  Padilla," 
he  said.  "You  never  intrude,"  he 
added  courteously;  and  then  as  a 
wave  of  love-hunger  swept  over  his 
face  he  continued:  "My  thoughts 
are  all  memories  of  Old  Spain. 
Father,  I  am  homesick  tonight." 

Father  Padilla  had  that  rare  pres 
ence  that  speaks  more  sympathy 
than  words  express.  He  sat  down 
and  laid  one  hand  gently  on  young 
Tristan's  shoulder.  A  sense  of  com 
fort  came  in  the  very  touch .  ' '  When 
you  are  homesick,"  he  said  gently, 
"you  should  come  to  the  altar  in 
your  heavenly  Father's  house." 

"  It  is  His  house  wherever  you  are, 

(26) 


Fra  Padilla,"  replied  Tristan,  rever 
ently.  "Were  you  seeking  me,  or 
did  you  come  here  to  be  alone?" 

"I  have  a  message  for  you,  my 
son,"  replied  the  Fra,  "but  you  have 
something  to  tell  me  first." 

The  young  man  turned  his  face 
away  and  his  hands  gripped  each 
other.  The  face  of  the  priest  at  that 
moment  lost  all  its  reserve.  A  look 
of  loving  pity  swept  over  it.  A  ges 
ture  which  Gallego  did  not  note,  a 
quick  movement  as  if  he  would  take 
this  strong  man  like  a  child  into  his 
own  stronger  arms  to  protect  him. 
But  when  Tristan  turned  to  him 
again  the  look  had  vanished  and  only 
the  calm  self-controlled  priest  sat 
there. 

"You  know  why  I  came  to  New 
Spain,  Father?" 

"Tell  me,"  replied  the  priest. 

(27) 


3ln  <®Ui  <i])utmni 


"You  know  the  Morellos  of  Ma 
drid?" 

Fra  Padilla's  face  was  like  gray 
stone  at  that  moment,  and  his  eyes 
looked  only  at  the  valley  before  him. 

"You  know  my  father,  Juan  Gal- 
lego,  was  a  spendthrift,"  Tristan 
went  on. 

"He  was  a  good  commander  of 
men,"  the  Fra  responded  quietly. 

"But  not  a  commander  of  money. 
I  should  be  rich:  I  am  very  poor. 
I  came  to  America  to  make  a  for 
tune." 

"You  never  seemed  avaricious  to 
me,  my  son,"  the  priest  spoke  gently. 

' '  No ;  heaven  knows  I  want  money 
not  as  all  those  gay  young  men  of 
Madrid  want  it,  to  squander  on  wine 
and  women  and  dice.  When  we  were 
rich,  and  my  father  was  in  his  prime, 
I  first  learned  to  love  Teresita  Mo- 
rello.  Oh,  Father,  you  are  a  priest 

(28) 


<f  uttnra 


and  do  not  know  what  love  means 
to  a  fiery  young  Spanish  heart." 

Again  the  priest's  face  blanched 
from  the  clear  olive  to  a  chalky  gray, 
but  no  hint  of  what  lay  behind  that 
face  revealed  itself. 

"Teresita  is  not  like  the  Morello 
blood.  She  is  beautiful  as  a  Ma 
donna,  and  gentle  and  loving.  And 
if  she  is  my  sun  and  moon  and  stars, 
I  also  am  the  light  of  her  life.  She 
did  not  care  for  my  wealth  when  I 
had  it,  nor  love  me  less  without  it, 
when  my  father  became  bankrupt. 

"The  Morello  family  are  proud 
and  fond  of  display.  They  would 
have  separated  us  forever  if  they 
could  have  done  so.  But  they  could 
not  do  it." 

Gallego's  voice  was  deep  with  sup 
pressed  force. 

"They  have  done  such  things," 
said  Father  Padilla  in  a  low  voice. 

(29) 


3ltt 


The  young  Spaniard  looked  up 
quickly,  and  his  face  grew  stern. 
"I  tell  you,  Father,  they  could  not. 
Teresita  and  I  love  each  other.  Oh, 
Father,  it  is  so  wonderful  to  have  a 
love  like  hers.  It  outlives  poverty 
and  separation.  Her  father  refused 
me  her  hand,  even  admission  to  her 
house,  and  sent  her  to  Seville  to  the 
keeping  of  old  Count  Da  Gar  da,  his 
friend  and  cousin  twice  or  thrice  re 
moved.  I  followed.  So  would  you, 
Father,  if  you  were  in  love.  Da 
Garda  was  indulgent  to  us  at  first, 
and  then,  old  and  broken  as  he  was 
by  years  of  reckless  living,  he  fell  in 
love  with  Teresita  himself,  offering 
her  all  his  fortune  with  its  proud  old 
name.  And  the  Morellos,  caring 
only  for  gold,  mind  you,  gave  ready 
consent." 

The  young  man  sat  silent  for  some 
time,  watching  the  full  moon  that 

(30) 


Sin  OMfc  (pmmra 


was  rising  like  a  red  flame  over  the 
eastern  horizon -line.  The  night  was 
cool,  and  a  life-giving  breath  was  in 
the  air  that  swept  over  the  table 
land. 

"Father  Padilla "—  young  Tris 
tan's  voice  was  full  of  the  music  of 
the  Mediterranean  lands  -  ' '  Father, 
I  can  see  the  moonlight  over  Seville 
tonight  as  it  was  that  night  when 
Teresita  and  I  sat  under  the  vines 
in  the  palace  garden  and  plighted  our 
troth  forever.  Teresita's  eyes  were 
like  the  stars  and  her  red  lips  were 
sweet  to  my  lips  as  I  kissed  her. 
There  was  a  nightingale  somewhere 
up  the  shadowed  way,  and  the  air 
from  the  Atlantic  was  like  wine. 
We  made  our  life-plans  together  - 
for  ourselves,  not  for  her  proud,  self 
ish  father,  nor  old  Da  Garda,  but  for 
her  and  me.  She  would  have  shared 
my  poverty,  but  I  would  not  permit. 

(31) 


Slit  <$&  (futmra 


I  left  her  to  find  a  fortune  here  where 
so  many  Spanish  gentlemen  have 
come  for  gold.  And  when  I  have 
found  it  I  shall  go  back  to  Seville. 
She  waits  for  me  tonight  in  Old 
Spain.  Tonight  at  the  vesper 
hour—" 

The  bells  of  the  monastery  at  that 
moment  chimed  sweetly  on  the  even 
ing  air.  The  priest  and  Tristan 
bowed  in  reverent  prayer  for  many 
minutes.  Then  the  young  man 
spoke  again: 

"When  I  sailed  out  of  the  harbor 
of  San  Lucar  her  hand  was  the  last 
one  I  held ;  her  kiss  I  carry  here  in 
my  heart.  Tonight  at  the  vesper 
hour  we  were  to  renew  our  vows 
though  all  the  broad  Atlantic  lies 
between  us.  And  I  am  here,  Father, 
with  a  heart  full  of  pictures  of  Spain, 
a  mind  full  of  happy  memories,  and 
a  soul  full  of  high  resolve.  You  know 

(32) 


that  fortunes  do  not  grow  on  trees 
here,  to  be  had  for  the  shaking,  if 
men  keep  honest.  I  cannot  take 
back  to  my  loved  one  ill-gotten  gains, 
for  it  was  not  for  my  wealth  she 
loved  me.  But  I  have  a  plan." 

"What  is  it?"  queried  Juan  Pa- 
dilla.  There  was  a  tone  of  pain  in 
his  voice,  but  Tristan  did  not  note 
it.  The  spell  of  Spain  was  over  the 
young  lover,  and  his  mind  was  far 
away  in  old  Seville. 

;<  You  know,  Father,  that  the  good 
Mendoza  is  preparing  even  now  to 
send  out  an  expedition  to  the  north 
ward,  to  the  rich  cities  of  Cibola  and 
the  kingdom  of  Quivira.  And  the 
noted  Adelantado,  Francesco  Vas- 
quez  de  Coronado  of  New  Galicia,  is 
to  command  it.  I  am  not  of  those 
that  expect  vastly  more  than  Pizarro 
found  in  Peru  among  the  Incas. 
But  there  is  almost  uncounted  wealth 

(33) 


<f  utmra 


for  every  one  who  goes  with  Coro- 
nado.  And  for  the  holy  Caesarian 
empire  there  are  wide  new  lands,  and 
for  the  blessed  Mother  Church  vast 
riches.  It  is  the  opportunity  of  a 
lifetime,  and  I  shall  join  the  Gover 
nor  of  New  Galicia  when  he  comes 
hither  in  a  few  weeks." 

Another  pause,  broken  only  by 
the  sounds  of  evening.  Then  Gallego 
spoke : 

"This  conquest  of  the  north  will 
soon  be  accomplished,  and  then  — 
home  to  beautiful  Spain  and  Teresita 
and  love.  Oh,  Fra  Padilla,  give  me 
your  blessing.  I  am  sad  and  happy, 
both  in  one,  tonight,  for  memory  and 
hope  play  about  the  edge  of  a  lone 
liness  that  absence  will  bring.  But 
bless  me,  Father." 

"Peace  be  with  thee,  my  son," 
said  the  holy  Father  as  he  laid  his 
hands  gently  on  the  young  man's 

(34) 


(jhrimra 


bowed  head ;  and  in  the  silence  that 
followed,  only  the  rippling  evening 
breeze  and  the  subdued  sounds  from 
the  valley  broke  the  stillness.  And 
then  the  good  man  spoke.  It  was 
said  of  him  that  no  other  man  in 
North  America  had  a  voice  at  once 
so  sweet  and  deep  and  full  of  power 
as  Fra  Juan  Padilla's  voice. 

"My  son,  I  bring  you  a  message 
tonight.  It  is  not  for  your  hope  and 
love  and  ambition,  but  for  your  en 
durance.  Before  I  give  it  all  to  you 
I  must  tell  you  a  story.  It  is  short 
and  not  uncommon,  and  you  will 
understand  it.  Pedro  the  courier 
brought  letters  from  the  East  an 
hour  and  a  half  ago.  You  must  have 
been  on  your  way  up  here  then  or  you 
would  have  heard  the  shouting  in 
the  plaza." 

"Yes,  Father,  I  had  a  tryst  to 
keep,  although  it  was  only  a  tryst  of 

(35) 


in 


time,  for,  as  I  told  you,  the  one  I 
keep  it  with  is  far  over  the  sea." 

"  Pedro  brought  me  many  mes 
sages,"  the  Fra  continued.  "Some 
were  for  me  alone,  and  some  were 
for  me  to  deliver  to  others.  One 
was  for  you." 

A  sudden  fear  seized  Tristan.  An 
involuntary  quiver  passed  through 
his  every  fibre.  But  the  Fra's  gentle 
voice  continued:  "It  is  more  than 
fifteen  hundred  years  ago  tonight 
that  the  Son  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 
was  born.  In  all  these  fifteen  hun 
dred  years  men  have  but  slowly 
learned  His  message  — the  message 
of  self-sacrifice.  The  younger  we 
are  the  harder  it  is  to  understand." 

"Oh,  Father!"  Tristan's  voice 
was  sharp  with  dread. 

"My boy" — there  was  a  strength 
in  the  very  sound  of  the  good  priest's 
tone  —  "let  me  tell  you  a  story, — 

(36) 


the  story  a  man  does  not  tell  except 
in  the  sacredest  hours  of  his  life. 
Such  an  hour  is  here.  You  are  not 
the  only  lover  who  ever  held  mem 
ories  of  Old  Spain.  Your  own  story 
was  acted  out  before  you  were  born. 
There  was  a  young  commander  in 
the  Spanish  army,  rich,  happy,  and 
prosperous.  Too  rich,  too  happy, 
and  too  prosperous,  for  the  courtiers 
envied  his  success,  and  the  king 
would  have  had  his  wealth.  He 
loved  a  beautiful  girl  whose  name 
was  Nina.  I  do  not  believe  your 
Teresita  is  more  lovely  than  her  — 
than  this  Nina,  who  is  old  enough 
now  to  be  her  mother." 

"Teresita's  mother  is  dead,"  said 
Tristan. 

"I  know  — is  she?  Well.  This 
Nina  loved  the  young  officer  as  — 
your  senorita  loved  you.  I'll  make 
this  story  brief.  The  jealous  cour- 

(37) 


In 


tiers,  one  of  whom  was  madly  in  love 
with  Sefiorita  Nina,  by  such  tricks 
as  a  king's  courtiers  can  play  de 
ceived  the  beautiful  girl  with  lies 
only  Satan  could  invent  for  man. 
They  could  not  deceive  the  general 
of  the  army,  for  he  knew  his  young 
officer  too  well.  But  the  beloved  of 
this  young  man's  soul  they  persuaded 
to  the  belief  that  her  lover  was  false, 
that  he  had  lost  his  fortune  at  cards, 
and  that  he  had  already  cast  her  off. 
Sefiorita  Nina  was  too  proud  to  die 
of  a  broken  heart.  When  the  army 
came  home  from  a  long  campaign 
she  was  the  wife  of  the  man  who  had 
lied  to  her  against  her  lover.  Ex 
ulting  in  his  success,  he  had  boldly 
declared  to  her  his  scheme  for  win 
ning  her.  Sefiora  Nina  came  alone 
one  sad  night  to  the  home  of  her 
lover,  and  in  an  agony  of  soul  she 
told  him  all  the  story,  of  which 

(38) 


Sin  <®&  <f  irimra 


he  until  that  moment  knew  noth 
ing. 

"  In  one  brief  hour  the  light  of  his 
life  went  out.  He  was  young  and 
rich  and  popular,  and  some  said, 
handsome.  But  for  him  the  world 
had  lost  its  charm.  What  passed 
between  him  and  the  woman  he 
loved  as  madly  as  you  love,  my  son, 
only  the  God  of  heaven  knows.  It 
was  a  sacred  hour,  with  no  sin  in  it. 
Then  Sefiora  Nina  went  back  to  her 
villa  near  Madrid,  and  the  young 
man  found  the  only  open  door  — 
the  door  of  the  sanctuary.  He  en 
tered  the  priesthood  of  the  holy 
church." 

"What  became  of  his  wealth?" 
Gallego  asked,  eagerly. 

"He  put  it  away." 

"  In  the  church  ?  How  good  of 
him!  But  by  what  name  was  he 
known  in  the  holy  orders?" 

(39) 


3I« 


"They  called  him,  Fra  Padilla" 
replied  the  priest  quietly. 

"Oh,  Father  Juan!  Could  that 
have  been  you?"  cried  Tristan, 
starting  up  and  staring  at  the  holy 
man. 

"Sit  down,  Tristan.  I  have  yet 
my  message.  The  same  old  story 
is  acted  again  in  Spain.  The  letters 
bring  me  word  tonight  that  Count 
Da  Garda  and  Senorita  Teresita  are 
to  be  married  on  this  Christmas  Eve. 
Bear  up,  my  son.  I  know  your 
Teresita's  heart  is  as  true  to  you  as 
my  Nina's  was  true.  Some  power 
has  overruled  her  own.  Bear  up. 
I  have  listened  to  the  same  story." 

But  Tristan  had  fallen  forward, 
and  lay  in  the  strong  arms  of  Father 
Padilla. 

"Only,"  the  priest  continued,  "I 
heard  it  from  her  own  white  lips. 
My  son,  when  earthly  loves  fail  us 

(40) 


3ftt  <§U>  (f  uttrtra 


the  love  of  the  Son  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  stands  sure.  The  doors  of 
the  holy  church  close  never  against 
us.  Come  now  to  her  altars  and 
consecrate  yourself  as  I  have  done." 
Tristan  Gallego  lifted  his  head  and 
sat  erect,  staring  out  at  the  valley 
with  eyes  that  saw  nothing.  The 
moon  was  full  in  the  heavens  now, 
and  the  richness  of  a  semi-tropical 
night  in  all  its  weird  beauty  was 
about  these  two  men  with  whom 
Fate  had  played  so  grimly.  Long 
they  sat  together.  Faint  sounds  of 
merry-making  floated  up  from  the 
little  walled  town,  but  neither  heard 
them.  At  length  the  young  man  rose, 
and  stood  erect.  Years  seemed  to 
have  passed  over  his  head  since  with 
springing  step  he  had  climbed  to 
this  height  such  a  little  while  before. 
His  face  in  the  moonlight  was  hard 
and  cold.  The  priest  stood  up  beside 

(41) 


3ftt  (Mfc  (ptrtirtnt 


him,  taller  by  full  two  inches,  broader 
and  more  powerfully  built. 

"You  will  come  with  me?"  he 
asked. 

Tristan  turned  his  dry,  burning 
eyes  on  the  good  man's  face.  When 
he  spoke  all  the  music  had  left  his 
voice. 

"  I  have  only  one  aim  in  life.  I 
must  get  money." 

"And  after  that?" 

"There  is  no  'after  that.'  I  shall 
go  with  Coronado,  not  as  I  had 
meant.  O  God !  that  I  might  leave 
here  all  my  memories  of  Spain.  I 
shall  not  die  nor  wither  away  about 
the  accursed  altars."  He  laughed 
harshly.  "  I  must  be  a  man  of  ac 
tion.  I  shall  be  rich,  and  power  will 
be  mine.  I  say  curse  the  church 
for  all  the  help  it  is  to  me."  He 
ground  his  teeth  in  bitterness  of 
spirit. 

(42) 


(futmnt 


The  good  father  put  a  firm  hand 
on  Gallego's  arm. 

"  Go  to  what  lengths  you  will,  my 
son,  the  holy  sanctuary  will  still 
be  before  you,  and  a  power  beyond 
all  you  may  hold  will  yet  draw  you 
upward.  But  your  penance  will  be 
heavy. —  Let  us  go  down  now.  This 
is  the  first  holy-night  in  your  new 
life,  but  not  your  last,  my  boy,  not 
your  last." 

The  two  went  down  together.  In 
the  heart  of  one  was  a  growing  love 
and  pity;  in  the  other's  heart,  a 
fiercely  gathering  hatred  toward  all 
the  world. 

At  the  western  wall  an  Indian 
slave  girl  darted  out  of  the  shadow 
at  their  approach,  and  sprang  to 
ward  the  gateway.  In  her  haste 
she  tripped,  and  fell  against  young 
Gallego.  As  he  caught  her  by  the 
arm  to  lift  her  up  her  frightened  face 

(43) 


shone  full  in  the  moonlight.  He 
stared  down  at  it  a  moment,  then 
hurled  her  toward  the  gate  with  all 
his  might. 

"  She  is  one  of  the  captives  Friar 
Marcos  brought  back  from  the  north. 
I've  often  seen  her.  But  her  eyes 
looked  just  then  like  Teresita's  when 
her  father  drove  me  from  his  villa 
at  Madrid.  Why  should  even  an 
Indian  slave  in  the  New  World  call 
up  a  high-born  sefiorita  of  Old  Spain ! 
Shall  I  ever  forget?" 

"I  have  never  forgotten,"  replied 
Padilla,  "nor  have  I  ever  wished  to 
forget." 

"  Good-night,  Father, "  and  Gallego 
strode  through  the  gate  without  turn 
ing  his  head  or  asking  for  a  blessing. 
The  world  had  in  it  no  peace  and 
goodwill  for  him  in  that  tragic  hour 
of  grief  and  loss. 

"Good-night,  Tristan,"  said  Fra 

(44) 


3ltt 


Padilla.  He  was  bending  over  the 
girl  where  she  had  fallen  by  the  gate. 
Lifting  her  gently,  he  questioned  her 
in  the  broken  Spanish  that  the  In 
dians  learned  readily. 

"  Come,  Natana,  why  were  you  be 
yond  the  walls  at  this  hour?" 

"Oh,  Fra  Padilla,"  returned  the 
captive  slave,  in  the  same  tongue,  "I 
want  my  own  people,  far, far  away." 
She  waved  her  arm  toward  the  north. 

"  You  could  never  find  them  alone, 
Natana.  You  would  perish  in  the 
desert.  Come  with  me  tonight." 

"Oh,  Father,  take  me  to  them. 
Take  me  to  Isopete,  my  —  my  sweet 
heart,  you  would  say  it,  Isopete. 
Natana  is  heavy-heart  tonight." 

"Come,"  said  the  Fra  gently. 
"Some  day  I  will  take  you,  but  not 
now.  It  may  be  I  shall  go  north 
with  Coronado.  Then  you  may  go 
with  me." 

(45) 


Sin 


At  the  door  of  the  church  the  two 
met  Tristan,  standing  like  a  carved 
support  of  the  archway.  Inside  the 
church  chants  were  sounding,  and 
dim  candles  cast  a  pale  radiance  on 
the  crucifix  and  the  image  of  the 
Virgin  Madonna.  Leading  the  slave 
by  one  hand  and  the  proud  crushed 
Tristan  by  the  other,  Fra  Padilla 
passed  into  the  church. 

"Here,"  he  said  in  voice  of  bene 
diction,  "  is  the  anchor  to  your  souls. 
Peace  be  with  you." 

Tristan  Gallego  turned  only  a  grim 
face  toward  the  holy  altar,  unsoft- 
ened  by  any  line  of  tenderness,  but 
the  slave  girl's  wondering  dark  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

And  so  the  Christmas  Eve  went  by 
in  Compostela  three  centuries  and 
a  half  ago. 

(46) 


western  sea  was  made 
the  plains  was  dug  beside 
JAMES  W.  STEELE. 

Y  the  end  of  the  Christ 
mas  festivities  in  all  New 
Spain  only  one  subject 
was  talked  of — the  expe 
dition  to  Quivira.  Francesco  Vas- 
quez  de  Coronado,  Governor  of  New 
Galicia,  was  rich  and  popular.  His 
name  alone,  as  commander,  would 
have  given  prestige  to  the  under 
taking.  The  discovery  of  the  Klon 
dike  mines,  the  California  gold  fever 
of  '49,  were  mild  and  inane  in  their 
influence  on  the  popular  mind  com 
pared  with  the  feverish  excitement 
of  that  time.  Mendoza's  immense 

(47) 


3ln  (Pto  (firitrira 


levy  upon  the  province  of  New  Spain 
for  supplies  and  equipment  almost 
bankrupted     the     public     treasury. 
But  nobody  thought  of  complaining. 
It  seemed  a  sin  not  to   do  more. 
Every  day  new  demands  were  made 
and   every  day  new  stores   poured 
into  Mendoza's  hands.     To  the  vice 
roy   it    meant    the    quest    of   what 
should  place  him  in  rank  with  Cortez 
and  Pizarro.     It  meant  the  fabulous 
increase  of  his  provincial  resources, 
and  it  meant  the  temporary  removal 
from  New  Spain  of  many  gay  young 
spendthrifts  to  whom  the  New  World 
had    been    a    disappointment    and 
through    whose    troublesome    med 
dling    uncomfortable    reports    were 
seeping  into  the  king's  ears  across 
the  sea. 

To  the  young  knights  the  expe 
dition  was  the  realization  of  their 
wildest  dreams  of  adventure  and 

(48) 


(jtotmra 


fortune,  release  from  debt,  and  a 
future  of  luxurious  living.  To  the 
Commander,  Coronado,  there  was 
a  higher  purpose  than  these  in  the 
effort.  He  was  a  Spanish  patriot 
and  a  devout  Catholic.  The  con 
quest  of  Quivira  would  enrich  his 
king  and  extend  the  domain  of  the 
Church.  In  his  heart  he  never 
doubted  the  future.  Had  not  Pi- 
zarro  followed  the  Indian  south 
ward  and  found  fabulous  wealth  ? 
And  were  not  all  the  stories  of 
Quivira  alike — a  land  whose  cities 
were  paved  with  gold,  whose  palaces 
flashed  with  jewels,  a  land  of  bar 
baric  splendor  whose  heathen  peo 
ples  must  be  brought  into  the  bounds 
of  Christendom? 

The  expedition  was  to  start  from 
Compostela  late  in  February.  The 
two  months  between  Christmas  and 
this  time  were  busy  ones  for  Tristan 

(49) 


Sin  (Plfc  (jputmra 


Gallego.  His  equipment,  like  many 
another  Spanish  knight's,  was  paid 
for  by  money  borrowed  from  the 
public  treasury.  In  all  Gallego 's 
possessions  only  one  weapon  was 
his  own — the  sword  of  his  father, 
Juan  Gallego,  which  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  Spain.  How  little 
he  had  cared  for  it  save  as  his 
father's  weapon  in  his  first  days  in 
the  New  World. 

' '  I  shall  hang  it  in  the  hall  of  my 
villa  when  I  go  home,"  he  had  said 
to  himself  many  times.  The  sword 
has  little  to  do  with  a  heart  like 
mine,  where  love  is  supreme." 

The  memory  of  all  this  was  a 
mockery  to  him  now.  The  23rd  of 
February,  the  day  appointed  for  the 
starting,  fell  on  Monday.  On  the 
Saturday  night  before,  Pedro,  the 
courier,  had  come  again  on  his  jaded 
little  mule  with  messages  from  the 

(50) 


3(tt  OMfc  <  uttrira 


Gulf  towns.  The  sealed  packet  for 
Fra  Padilla  this  time  carried  no 
message  for  others.  On  this  Mon 
day  morning,  before  the  gay  caval 
cade  began  its  triumphal  march  to 
the  north,  Pedro,  with  secret  mes 
sages  from  Fra  Juan  Padilla  to  men 
of  power  in  Spain,  was  hurrying 
eastward  over  the  rough  way  he 
had  covered  only  two  days  before. 

On  this  Monday  morning  Com 
pos  tela  was  in  gala  dress.  Every 
house  had  the  flag  of  Spain  flying 
over  it.  Bands  of  music  beat  the 
air.  Crowds  gathered  in  the  streets 
and  a  joyous  spirit  filled  all  the  place. 

It  was  a  splendid  sight,  that  com 
pany  that  marched  away  from  old 
Compostela  on  that  February  morn 
ing  more  than  three  hundred  fifty 
years  ago,  with  Francesco  de  Coro- 
nado  at  the  head.  Two  hundred 
and  sixty  cavaliers,  seventy  foot-sol- 

(51) 


3ltt  <®U>  (pntoira 


diers,  and  a  thousand  Indian  attend 
ants,  guides,  body  guards  and  serv 
ing-men.  The  sun  shone  down  on 
gay-colored  scarfs  and  polished  steel 
armor  and  glittering  swords.  On  the 
mules  with  their  jeweled  bridles  and 
the  tricked-out  line  of  pack  animals 
with  their  burdens  of  supplies. 

Droves  of  lowing  cattle,  and  flocks 
of  bleating  sheep,  relays  of  supplies 
of  every  kind,  had  preceded  the 
marching  force,  as  with  the  magnifi 
cent  display  of  an  Old  World  pageant 
it  swept  out  of  the  western  gate  and 
passed  from  view  around  the  shoulder 
of  the  table-land. 

As  the  gates  closed  behind  the 
last  of  the  cavalcade,  an  Indian  girl 
sprang  out  between  them.  Quickly 
forcing  her  way  into  the  midst  of 
the  company  following,  she  was  lost 
to  view.  Only  the  Indian  slave 
captive,  Natana,  strong  and  useful, 

(52) 


2ftt  <Pft  <f  mrnra 


but  —  slaves  were  plenty  —  let  her 
go- 
One  night,  after  many  days  of 
marching,  Fra  Padilla  was  sitting 
silently  by  his  camp-fire.  Crouching 
Indian  fashion  on  the  opposite  side 
was  Natana  the  slave  girl.  Sud 
denly  Tristan  Gallego  appeared,  and 
sat  down  beside  the  priest.  Natana 
cowered  in  fear  with  her  great  black 
eyes  fastened  on  the  young  man's 
face. 

"Never  fear,  Natana,"  said  the 
priest  in  the  Indian  tongue.  "He 
has  a  sweetheart  too,  far  away; 
like  you,  he  is  lonely." 

Natana's  eyes  lost  their  terror, 
and  a  look  of  sympathy  and  intense 
interest  swept  over  her  face. 

"Who  is  that  accursed  woman, 
Father  ? ' '  asked  Gallego.  ' '  There  are 
scores  of  Indian  women  in  this  com 
pany,  but  always  I  see  this  one." 

(53) 


3ln  (ito  (putmra 


JS,"  It  is'Natana,  a  Quiviran  captive, 
Tristan/ ;  She  has  a  lover  up  north. 
And  she  begged  me  to  take  her  when 
we  left  Compostela.  She  is  the 
brightest  Indian  I  have  ever  known. 
Somehow  she  seems  like  our  Spanish 
peasantry." 

Tristan  gazed  long  into  the  eyes 
of  Natana  looking  into  his  eyes  as 
she  sat  beyond  the  smoldering  fire. 
For  the  first  time  since  the  Christ 
mas  Eve  his  face  softened  by  ever 
so  faint  a  hint.  At  that  moment  a 
comradeship  began  between  them  in 
that  invisible,  unuttered  compact  of 
souls  where  the  glance  of  the  eye  or 
the  touch  of  the  hand  says  what  the 
mind  may  be  long  in  framing  into 
words. 

"Be  kind  to  her,  Tristan.  I  am 
gentle  with  all  lovers,  else  I  had  ex 
communicated  you  when  you  cursed 
the  church.  It  may  do  your  own 

(54) 


3ftt  $to  (jhtrotra 


heart  good  to  have  even  a  heathen 
captive  to  be  good  to." 

"Her  eyes  are  so  like  Teresita's," 
murmured  Tristan  under  his  breath. 
Fra  Padilla  did  not  hear,  but  he 
understood. 

In  the  old  Spanish  manuscripts 
the  story  of  that  long  and  difficult 
journey  toward  Quivira  is  imper 
fectly  told.  Months  went  by  before 
the  force  of  Coronado  had  finally 
come  to  a  halt  in  the  pueblo  village 
of  Tewa.  Months  of  slow  grinding 
down  of  grandeur.  Little  by  little 
the  glitter  was  lost;  luxury  gave 
way  to  comfort  only,  and  comfort 
was  close  now  to  necessity.  The 
seven  fabulous  cities  had  proved  to 
be  only  a  mud-walled  village.  With 
the  changes  had  grown  a  change  of 
spirit.  High  hopes  had  fallen  to 
grim  determination,  and  ambition 

(55) 


3ltt 


was  turned  to  angry  disappointment. 
It  was  a  lawless  band  that  the  in 
domitable  Coronado  held  rule  over 
during  the  long  cold  winter  in  Tewa. 
The  reckless  vices  and  inhuman 
cruelty  of  the  Spanish  knights  in 
that  heathen  land  are  by  our  twenti 
eth-century  standards  too  evil  for 
printed  words.  In  all  this,  Tristan 
Gallego,  moody  and  hard-hearted, 
took  little  part.  Though  changed  as 
night  from  day  from  the  sunny- 
spirited,  affectionate  young  man  who 
had  come  a  year  before  with  fond 
hopes  to  the  New  World,  a  certain 
high-born  sense  of  justice  and  honor 
controlled  him.  He  would  have 
crushed  down  to  death  whatever 
came  between  him  and  his  one 
avaricious  aim  now,  but  he  was  not 
wantonly  cruel. 

In  the  idle  days  of  slow  marching 
and  slow  waiting,  Tristan  Gallego 

(56) 


Slit 


had  had  only  one  pastime.  Natana, 
the  servant  of  Fra  Padilla,  was  the 
one  soul  in  all  that  company  besides 
the  priest  for  whom  he  had  a  kind 
word.  As  a  proud  Spanish  gentle 
man  he  ignored  her,  but  as  a  broken 
hearted  lover  her  presence  fed  a 
gnawing  hunger  in  his  soul. 

There  was  much  for  the  Indian 
women  to  do  in  that  expedition.  All 
day  long  they  labored.  The  heavy 
and  light  camp  work  fell  on  them, 
and  they  knew  little  of  the  com 
mander  and  his  associates,  whose 
body  servants  were  Indian  men.  It 
was  only  at  night,  when  the  work 
was  done,  that  Natana  came  and 
sat  by  Fra  Padilla's  fire  and  listened 
to  him  and  the  handsome  young 
knight,  who  sat  late  together.  And 
sometimes  the  good  father  was  called 
away,  leaving  Tristan  and  the  girl 
alone.  Then  Tristan  sat  beside  her 

(57) 


3ltt  091&  (guttnra 


and  told  her  stories  of  the  seas  and 
of  Old  Spain  beyond  them.  Some 
times  his  arms  were  about  her  and 
her  great  dark  eyes  looked  inno 
cently  into  his  as  she  listened.  Then 
he  would  kiss  her  good-night  and 
call  her  his  little  heathen  sister. 
Albeit  the  strength  of  her  lithe  arm 
was  a  match  for  his  own.  Then 
Natana  would  lie  awake  for  hours 
looking  up  at  the  stars  and  longing 
for  Isopete,  while  the  hot  tears 
washed  her  brown  cheeks.  But  the 
daylight  again  saw  only  a  grim  Span 
ish  knight  in  the  front  ranks,  while 
far  in  the  rear  an  Indian  captive 
toiled  at  the  tasks  the  women  must 
perform. 

One  moonlit  evening,  out  on  the 
far  Arizona  plains,  when  Tristan  had 
sat  very  late  by  Natana's  side,  she 
suddenly  shivered  as  with  fright. 

(.68) 


"What  is  it,  little  Pagan?"  asked 
Tristan. 

"I'm  afraid  of  him,  Good  Heart." 
This  was  the  name  she  had  given  to 
Gallego. 

"Afraid  of  whom?"  queried  Tris 
tan. 

"  Of  the  guide  you  call '  The  Turk,' 
who  has  been  with  us  all  this  moon. 
He  is  to  lead  us  to  Quivira.  He 
lives  toward  the  sunrise.  He  came 
to  me  last  night  and  wanted  me  to 
go  away  with  him  and  be  his  woman 
in  his  tepee.  He  promised  me  gold 
and  jewels  and  furs.  He  said  he 
would  lead  you  away  from  Quivira 
where  you  would  be  utterly  lost. 
I  told  him  I  would  tell  you,  and  he 
held  up  a  big  knife.  He  said  he 
hated  you,  Good-Heart;  that  you 
told  lies  on  him  to  the  great  Coro- 
nado,  and  he  wanted  your  scalp  to 

(59) 


3ftt  ©to  <f  mtrira 


hang  in  his  tepee.  Oh,  Good-Heart ! 
is  your  sword  sharp  ? " 

Gallego  laughed  softly,  musically, 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  in  sunny  Spain, 
and  held  up  his  sword,  the  sword  of 
his  father,  Juan  Gallego. 

"You  see  this  sword,  and  its  in 
scription, 

NO    ME    SAQUES    SIN    RAZON. 
NO    ME    ENBAINES    SIN    HONOR. 

That  means,  'Draw  me  not  without 
reason.  Sheath  me  not  without 
honor.'  There  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  draw  it  for  this  Turk,  nor 
honor  in  running  it  through  his 
heart.  I  believe  he  is  a  liar,  and  is 
deceiving  the  good  Coronado.  So 
thinks  our  other  guide,  a  fine  big 
Indian  from  the  north.  I  cannot 
remember  his  name.  He  has  been 
with  us  since  we  reached  the  plains, 
and  to  my  mind  he  is  more  reliable 
than  this  Turk,  who  is  a  rascal. 

(60) 


There  is  jealousy  between  them  al 
ready.  But  I  would  not  spoil  my 
polished  sword  with  the  Turk.  I'll 
choke  him  or  grind  him  with  my 
heel  like  a  rattlesnake!  Do  not 
fear  him,  little  sister."  And  Gallego 
gathered  her  close  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her. 

When  he  rose  to  go  he  put  one 
arm  around  Natana,  and  turned  her 
face  full  to  the  moonlight.  But  it 
was  of  Teresita  that  he  was  think 
ing. 

Out  in  the  light,  coiled  behind  a 
yucca  plant,  was  the  Indian  guide, 
Turk.  As  Gallego  strode  past  him 
he  reared  his  head  like  a  serpent 
about  to  strike.  Involuntarily  the 
Spaniard's  hand  sought  his  sword. 
It  lay  by  the  camp-fire  where  he  had 
sat  with  Natana.  With  a  quick 
spring  he  caught  the  powerful  In 
dian  by  the  throat  with  a  grip  like 

(61) 


Sin 


steel.  The  Indian  writhed,  gurgled 
and  fell  half  strangled  to  the  ground, 
where  Gallego  kicked  him  contemptu 
ously  aside. 

"Here,  Good  Heart,  is  your  sword. 
Will  he  kill  you  ? ' '  Natana  had  seen 
the  struggle  and  had  leaped  to  the 
Spaniard's  side. 

"Not  he.  I  was  just  a  second  too 
ready.  I  do  not  need  that  sword 
for  him.  When  I  choke  him  again 
he  will  never  wake  up. — Here,  you 
beast, —  get  you  to  your  place." 

The  Turk  turned  a  look  of  malig 
nant  hate  upon  Tristan  and  walked 
away.  Under  his  breath  he  was 
muttering  such  vows  of  vengeance 
as  only  an  Indian  can  make  who  has 
been  disgraced  before  a  woman  he 
desires,  and  beaten  by  the  physical 
cunning  of  an  enemy. 

"Little  Pagan,  keep  you  close 
among  the  women,  away  from  Coro- 

(62) 


lit  <®lb  <£ uttnra 


nado's  people.  The  Turk  might  do 
you  harm.  He  is  a  snake,  and  will 
come  to  his  own  one  of  these  days." 

Again  Gallego  bade  the  Indian  girl 
good-night,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
watched  her  till  she  had  reached  her 
own  sleeping-place  among  the  women 
and  had  rolled  her  blanket  about  her. 
Her  dreams  that  night  were  of  Isopete 
and  the  tepees  by  the  river  in  the 
fertile  lands  far  to  the  north. 

The  Turk  had  walked  straight  to 
the  sleeping-place  of  Coronado's  ser 
vants  and  guides.  His  moccasined 
feet  made  no  noise  as  he  passed 
among  the  prostrate  forms.  Paus 
ing  before  the  most  powerfully  built 
man  among  them,  he  stared  down  at 
him  for  many  minutes. 

"So  you  are  Isopete  of  Quivira, 
who  thinks  I  am  leading  these  white 
monsters  away  from  Quivira.  You 
told  me  your  Natana  was  a  captive 

(63) 


3Jn 


somewhere  south  and  you  might  find 
her  sometime  through  these  men. 
You  fool!  Your  Nat  ana  is  here,  an 
arrow-shot  away.  She  will  not  come 
to  you  again.  You  must  kill  this 
Gallego  for  me,  because  he  has  stolen 
your  Natana.  And  then  I'll  kill  you 
because  you  are  in  my  way.  And 
Natana  shall  live  in  my  tepee  by  the 
big  river,  far,  far  eastward  in  the 
deep  forests." 

So  ran  the  cunning  mind  of  the 
Turk.  Presently  he  pulled  lightly 
at  Isopete's  blanket.  The  big  In 
dian  sat  up,  wide  awake,  in  a  mo 
ment.  The  Turk  silently  motioned 
to  him  to  follow.  Isopete  rose  and 
glided  after  him.  Some  rods  away 
from  the  camp  a  deep  draw  cut  the 
ground.  Behind  its  steep  bank  the 
two  guides  sat  down,  Indian  fash 
ion,  in  silence. 

At  length  the  Turk  spoke.     Even 

(64) 


Isopete,  with  all  an  Indian's  insight, 
caught  no  trick  in  his  words. 

"  Your  Natana  is  not  south  —  she 
is  here  on  the  far  side  of  the  camp 
with  the  women." 

Isopete  sprang  up  eagerly. 

"  Sit,  Isopete.  You  fool !  Natana 
is  not  yours  now.  I  saw  her  tonight, 
as  I  sat  behind  a  yucca  bush.  That 
pale-face  they  call  Gallego  was  with 
her.  His  arms  around  her,  so." 
The  Turk  clasped  the  empty  air 
dramatically.  "And  he  kissed  her 
many  times.  I  heard  him  tell  her 
of  you,  and  she  only  clung  to  him. 
She  is  afraid  you  will  take  her  from 
him.  She  will  die  first.  I  tried  to 
tell  her  you  were  here,  but  this 
Gallego  caught  me,  so." 

The  Turk's  murderous  fingers 
closed  on  Isopete 's  throat  a  moment. 

"  Does  a  Quivira  brave  love  re 
venge?  Is  Quivira  a  coward  ?  Watch. 

(65) 


3(tt 


You  will  see  them  together.  Don't 
let  her  see  you.  He  will  kill  you  — 
so."  Again  the  fingers  sought  Iso- 
pete's  bare  throat.  ;<  You  watch. 
Then  you  kill  him.  I  will  help  you. 
But  do  not  let  Natana  know  you. 
She  stays  among  the  women.  She 
serves  that  big  Medicine-man  Padilla, 
for  he  is  good  to  every  one.  She  has 
never  been  near  this  part  of  the 
camp.  You  know  this  Gallego.  He 
is  cruel.  He  hates  all  Indians  and 
all  Spanish  too  except  that  Medicine 
man  Padilla,  and  Natana.  You  pol 
ished  his  sword  for  him  yesterday. 
Keep  it  bright,  Isopete,  for  his  own 
blood." 

Isopete  rose  steadily.  Not  a  fea 
ture  gave  expression  to  his  thought. 
The  old  story,  twice  made  in  Spain, 
was  writing  itself  out  for  him  on 
these  far-away  plains  of  a  desolate 
unknown  land. 

(66) 


"You  are  a  liar,"  he  said  to  the 
Turk  in  an  even  voice. 

A  look  of  cunning  swept  the  Turk's 
face. 

"  Go  and  see  yourself,  you  coward 
wolf  of  the  prairie !  Any  night  I  can 
show  you  if  Padilla  is  away.  Beware 
of  Padilla.  He  is  more  than  man. 
But  kill  this  Gallego,  or  go  pound 
maize  in  the  tepees  with  the  women." 

The  summer  of  1541  dragged  out 
its  hours.  Day  by  day  Coronado's 
company  found  itself  weaker,  farther 
from  home  and  supplies,  and  facing 
ever  a  wider  and  more  desolate 
plain, —  a  never-ending  monotony  of 
weariness  and  starvation,  beyond 
which  lay  —  Quivira.  To  Coronado 
they  were  days  of  grim  pursuit  of  a 
losing  purpose.  To  the  knights  they 
were  days  of  accursed  failure  and  de 
spair.  To  Gallego  they  were  what  all 

(67) 


3ltt  <$U>  (fmmra 


his  future  promised  —  a  blank  wait 
ing  for  his  sole  desire  —  gold.  To 
the  captive  girl  they  were  filled  with 
longing  for  the  green  valleys  of 
Quivira,  and  for  Isopete.  The  guides 
found  hours  of  misery  and  hate. 
Only  Fra  Juan  Padilla  possessed  his 
soul  in  peace  and  kept  his  hand  in 
the  right  hand  of  God. 

For  all  his  declaration,  the  Turk's 
poison  had  done  its  work  on  Iso 
pete.  The  cunning  Indian  had  found 
time  to  spy  upon  Gallego.  Brown 
as  the  brown  earth,  he  had  lain  near 
the  red  fire  unnoted  and  had  watched 
Gallego  bid  good-night  to  his  little 
heathen  sister,  not  as  a  brother  says 
good-night,  but  as  a  fond  lover  who 
lingers  to  give  a  gentle  word  and  a 
caressing  touch  to  lip  and  brow. 

Though  Quivira  lay  to  the  north, 
the  Turk  led  the  little  band  steadily 
eastward.  He  avoided  Gallego,  for 

(68) 


the  Indian  is  an  inherent  coward  be 
fore  a  superior  race.  But  no  motion 
of  Natana's  was  lost  to  him.  And  as 
he  was  a  craven  before  the  knight,  he 
was  a  braggart  before  the  girl. 

"  We  shall  be  so  far  from  Quivira 
they  will  all  perish,"  he  had  boasted 
to  Natana.  "  Then  you  will  go  with 
me  to  where  the  forests  are  full  of 
shade  and  no  more  deserts  are  any 
where.  If  you  but  say  one  little 
word  of  this  to  that  pale-face  in 
armor,  I'll  kill  him  before  you." 

So  the  Turk  threatened,  and  Na 
tana,  fearing  for  the  Spaniard,  kept 
her  counsel,  till  at  length  she  dared 
to  risk  fate  in  her  fear  and  trouble. 
Sitting  at  the  feet  of  Fra  Padilla  one 
night  after  a  wearisome  day  of  toil 
ing  over  barren  wastes,  she  told  him 
all  the  Turk's  story. 

"Go,  good  Father,  to  Coronado 
and  tell  him  tonight.  The  Turk  will 

(69) 


Sin  OPtft  (jp«fmra 


kill  Good  Heart  if  you  wait  till  to 
morrow."  So  pleaded  Natana. 

"Tell  me,  my  child,"  said  Padilla, 
looking  steadily  at  her  face,  "is  it 
for  him  you  would  do  this,  or  do  you 
want  Quivira  and  your  lover?" 

"I  would  save  Good  Heart,"  re 
plied  the  girl  simply,  "  but  I  —  want 
-  my  Isopete.  Father,  shall  I  never 
see  Quivira  again  ? " 

Fra  Padilla  led  Natana  away  to  the 
tent  of  Coronado.  Sitting  with  him 
were  Tristan  Gallego,  and  a  score  of 
other  Spaniards.  Crouching  outside 
the  door  were  the  two  guides.  In 
the  simple  words  of  the  lowly  faith 
ful  the  girl  made  known  to  the  com 
mander  the  whole  perfidious  plan  of 
the  wily  guide. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  all  this?" 
queried  Coronado.  "  You  are  a  cap 
tive  now.  If  we  were  lost  you  might 
be  free." 

(70) 


3ltt 


"To  save  his  life,"  said  Natana, 
pointing  to  Gallego.  "He  is  good 
to  me." 

"  Oh,  ho !  said  the  commander  with 
a  smile. 

"Like  any  other  woman,  she  is 
concealing  her  real  love,"  Padilla 
thought  to  himself. 

Outside  the  tent  the  Turk  laughed 
softly,  but  the  other  guide  stood 
erect  and  still  as  stone.  The  coun 
cil  dismissed  Natana,  who  beyond 
the  tent  door  came  face  to  face  with 
Isopete.  She  did  not  cry  out  nor 
faint.  She  was  true  Indian.  But 
she  stretched  out  her  arms  implor 
ingly,  her  face  full  of  joy. 

Isopete  folded  his  own  across  his 
broad  chest  and  looked  down  at  her 
coldly. 

"So  this  is  how  I  find  you,  Na 
tana,  begging  for  the  life  of  a  white 
man.  Go  to  him.  I  want  you  no 

(71) 


more.  I  guide  this  company  north 
ward  now.  When  we  reach  Quivira, 
see  what  comes  then." 

"Have  you  been  long  here,  Iso- 
pete?" 

"  Days  and  days  and  days." 

"Why  did  you  stay  away  from 
me?" 

"I  did  not  want  you,"  said  Iso- 
pete  coldly;  and  without  another 
word  he  strode  toward  his  command 
er's  tent. 

At  sunrise  next  day  a  new  order 
began.  Almost  a  year  and  a  half 
had  slipped  by  since  Coronado's  band 
had  begun  its  march,  wildly  believ 
ing  that  conquest  and  wealth  and 
honor  were  only  a  few  weeks  ahead. 
On  this  May  morning  only  thirty  res 
olute  men,  a  handful  of  Indian  serv 
ants  and  the  good  priest  Padilla  set 
out  alone  to  find  Quivira,  the  van 
ishing  land  of  their  ambition's 

(72) 


3(«  (§to  (immra 


dreams.  The  remainder  of  the  com 
pany  who  had  withstood  the  hard 
life  of  the  desert  plains  turned  back 
to  await  their  commander's  return 
in  the  Tewa  pueblo  beyond  the  Rio 
Grande. 

Sad  and  moody  were  those  thirty 
men,  clinging  to  a  forlorn  hope. 
Day  after  day  they  moved  north 
ward.  At  the  head  of  the  marching 
column  was  Isopete,  the  big  Quivira 
guide.  The  Turk,  guarded  and  in 
chains,  was  a  disgraced  captive  now, 
whose  fate  was  foretold  by  Gallego 
when  he  said : 

"  When  I  choke  you  again  you  will 
never  wake  up." 

Natana  still  clung  to  Fra  Padilla. 
She  had  no  joy  in  Quivira  without 
her  loved  Isopete,  but  there  was  no 
where  else  for  her  to  go  now.  And 
the  Christ  whom  Padilla  had  taught 
to  her  became  a  reality  here.  In  her 

(73) 


hopelessness  and  sorrow  the  hold  on 
His  love  who  had  also  suffered  was 
her  strength. 

Where  the  Cimarron  river  bends 
to  the  north,  leaving  an  arc  of  its 
course  inside  the  bounds  of  Kansas, 
to  the  southward  dip  of  the  wide 
Arkansas  wandering  aimlessly  away 
to  the  east,  there  are  today  great 
stretches  of  grazing-lands,  cut  here 
and  there  with  fields  of  alfalfa  and 
wheat  and  forage.  Three  hundred 
years  and  more  ago,  when  Coronado's 
thirty  knights  on  lean  and  hungry 
mules  came  riding  hither,  there  was 
here  little  more  than  sand-dunes, 
yucca  and  loco  plants  and  straggling 
wild  plum  bushes.  Eagerly  these 
men  sought  for  a  fertile  land  and  the 
spires  of  splendid  cities.  Wearily 
the  days  dragged  on,  and  only  sand 
and  glaring  sunshine,  and  the  monot- 

(74) 


Itt  ®l&  futmra 


ony  of  an  unbroken  horizon-line 
made  up  the  landscape.  Like  the 
snow-blindness  of  the  frozen  Yukon 
valley  became  this  yellow  blistering 
flare  to  the  eyes  of  the  straggling 
train. 

And  then  one  day  late  in  June 
across  the  flat  sandbars  of  this  wide 
eastward-going  river  the  white  tents 
of  an  Indian  village  shone  through 
the  thin  branches  of  a  cottonwood 
grove. 

Isopete  leaped  at  the  sight,  and 
gave  one  long  weird  cry  that  sounded 
far  across  the  wilds. 

"This  is  Quivira,"  he  exclaimed, 
falling  at  the  feet  of  Coronado. 
"These  are  my  people  come  to  the 
bounds  of  our  land  to  hunt.  There 
are  our  tepees,  with  white  skin  covers 
Two  days,  three  days,  maybe,  and 
we  shall  be  in  the  heart  of  Quivira." 

The  Spanish  commander  stood  si- 

(75) 


3to  (Plfc  <f  mmra 


lent  beside  his  tired  steed,  with  eyes 
intent  on  the  fertile  stretch  of  prairie 
that  seemed  to  lap  over  the  edge  of 
the  north  in  its  level  sweep.  Beside 
him  stood  Juan  Padilla,  and  beyond 
the  priest  was  the  Indian  girl,  whose 
dark  eyes  were  full  of  pathos.  A 
little  farther  away  Tristan  Gallego 
sat  on  his  mule.  Behind  him  were 
the  others  of  the  company  in  broken 
array. 

Coronado  lifted  high  his  sword, 
and  spoke  reverently: 

"  In  the  name  of  the  King  of  Spain 
I  claim  this  land,  its  people,  its 
wealth,  and  all  its  increase,  now  and 
for  all  future  years." 

Fra  Juan  Padilla  raised  his  right 
hand,  the  sacred  crucifix  held  high 
above  him. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Holy  Church, 
in  the  name  of  the  Saviour  who  died 
upon  the  Cross,"  he  said  solemnly, 

(76) 


"I  claim  the  souls  of  this  people, 
this  land,  its  wealth  and  all  its  in 
crease  that  shall  build  here  a  king 
dom  for  all  eternity.  Now  and  for 
ever  I  baptize  it  no  more  heathen, 
but  Christian.  Amen!" 

Tristan  Gallego  had  dropped  from 
his  steed  and  stood  a  moment  beside 
Nat  ana.  Pushing  her  gently  aside, 
with  such  a  touch  as  one  would  give 
a  pet  dog,  he  stood  beside  Padilla. 
The  motion  was  not  lost  on  Isopete. 
He  stepped  behind  the  girl  and  in  a 
low  voice  he  said  in  his  cold  even  tone 
of  anger : 

"  Stay  you  close  by  the  good  man. 
We  are  in  Quivira  now.  Keep  to  the 
priest  if  you  would  save  yourself." 

Natana  turned  a  startled  face  to 
ward  the  guide.  Love,  fear,  courage 
and  self-sacrifice  were  all  in  that  face. 
It  stirred  the  bitter  brooding  heart 
of  Isopete.  Almost  he  relented. 

(77) 


3ltt 


But  that  gentle  act  of  Gallego's  held 
him  back.  He  had  seen  the  wanton 
brutality  of  Spanish  gentlemen  to 
ward  Indian  women ;  too  much  had 
he  seen  in  this  long  journey.  Galle 
go's  touch  could  mean  only  love  and 
protecting  care  for  Natana.  The 
Turk  was  right.  Curse  him ! 

In  her  simple  heart  Natana  had 
hoped  that  Quivira  would  soften 
Isopete's  heart  toward  her.  She 
did  not  know  she  had  hoped  till  now 
on  the  edge  of  the  promised  land  he 
was  still  bitter  and  unloving. 

The  daily  service  of  the  camp  for 
Fra  Padilla  had  taught  her  much  of 
civilization  in  addition  to  what  she 
had  learned  in  Compostela.  She  was 
far  from  being  a  mere  ignorant  sav 
age  now,  and  she  began  to  see  deeper 
into  Isopete's  heart  than  he  saw  him 
self. 

"You  will  know  some  day,  Iso- 

(-78 ) 


itt  <®to 


pete,"  she  said  in  a  gentle  voice.  "I 
can  wait .  All  women  learn  to  wait . ' ' 

The  camp-fires  that  night  burned 
at  the  base  of  a  huge  rock  cliff  whose 
perpendicular  face  stood  out  boldly 
above  the  river  that  wound  around 
its  edges.  On  the  opposite  side  it 
sloped  steeply  down  into  the  plain. 
A  strange  stone  outcrop  it  was  in 
this  open  prairie,  destined  to  stand 
out  through  many  coming  years  as 
a  landmark  and  point  of  historic 
fame.  Christened  later  from  the 
fierce  fight  of  the  wild  Panis,  it  gained 
the  name  it  was  destined  to  keep  for 
all  future  time,  the  well-known  name 
of  PAWNEE  ROCK. 

On  this  clear  starlit  night  Tristan 
Gallego's  mind  was  full  of  unbidden 
memories.  Months  of  bitterness  and 
hardship  and  disappointment  had  not 
driven  Teresita  from  his  mind,  and 
life  was  before  him.  He  seemed  to 

(79) 


3fo  ®to 


have  been  thinking  through  all  these 
months  that  life  would  all  be  done 
with  when  he  had  reached  Quivira. 
He  could  not  endure  himself  alone. 
Seeking  out  Natana,  he  led  her  away 
to  the  crest  of  the  cliff  of  rock,  where 
the  two  sat  down  in  the  dim  light 
with  their  faces  toward  the  steep 
perpendicular  front  above  the  river. 

"See,  Natana,  what  a  citadel  this 
is.  Ten  men  could  fight  back  a  hun 
dred  here.  It  is  Nature's  own  for 
tress.  In  the  years  to  come,  when 
the  people  of  Europe  shall  have  over 
ruled  the  desert,  there  will  be  many 
a  tragedy  about  this  rock.  The  hos 
tile  tribes  could  not  reach  them  here, 
nor  would  their  arrows  match  the 
white  man's  guns." 

"  But  where  would  the  white  man 
get  water?"  asked  Natana. 

"  Sure  enough,  little  Pagan,  where 

(80) 


iftt  <&tt  (puimra 


would  he  ?  If  I  were  held  here  would 
you  bring  me  water  ? " 

"  I  would  save  you,  Good  Heart." 

A  quick  movement  behind  them, 
and  over  the  shoulders  of  each  a 
lasso  was  deftly  thrown,  binding  the 
arms  of  each  down  in  a  moment. 
With  a  lightning  swiftness  Gallego's 
feet  were  tied,  and  with  a  shove  his 
body  was  hurled  over  the  edge  of  the 
rock. 

The  next  moment  Natana  was 
caught  up  in  Isopete's  strong  arms 
and  borne  swiftly  down  the  slope. 
Once  only  his  lips  pressed  her  lips  as 
he  hurried  on. 

"Natana,  Natana,  I  had  to  get 
him  away.  I  cannot  live  in  Quivira 
with  him  here." 

For  one  brief  moment  Natana  was 
in  heaven.  Isopete  did  care  for  her, 
had  dared  for  her.  Then  she  strug 
gled  to  free  herself. 

(81) 


"  You  have  killed  Good  Heart,  Iso- 
pete.  Go  find  him.  Coronado  will 
kill  you." 

Isopete  laughed. 

"  The  Turk  broke  from  his  shackles 
tonight.  Coronado  will  say  the  Turk 
did  it.  The  Turk  must  die  anyhow. ' ' 

"I  will  tell  Coronado." 

"Do,"  sneered  the  Indian,  "and 
I'll  say  you  did  it.  He  remembers 
how  you  spoke  for  Gallego  against 
the  Turk.  He  knows  an  Indian 
slave  does  sometimes  hate  a  Spaniard 
who  trifles  with  her." 

Isopete  had  slipped  the  rope  off 
her  arms  and  placed  Natana  on 
her  feet.  As  he  caught  her  up  again 
a  hand  stronger  than  his  own  seized 
him  and  Fra  Padilla  held  him  in  a 
grip  like  iron.  Natana  caught  the 
priest's  arms. 

"  Let  him  go,  Father,  let  him  go," 
she  pleaded. 

(82) 


itt 


"All  women  are  alike,"  murmured 
Padilla  as  his  hold  loosened,  and 
Isopete  glided  away. 

Then  Natana  fell  at  the  feet  of  the 
priest. 

"  Oh,  Father,  Good  Heart  is  killed. 
He  fell  over  the  edge  of  the  rock." 

All  women  are  alike,  else  Natana 
had  told  the  whole  truth  then. 

"Where,  where,  my  child?"  In 
all  these  months  the  girl  had  never 
seen  Padilla  white  and  terror-smitten 
as  now. 

Together  they  hastened  up  the 
steep  ascent,  and  Natana  pointed  to 
the  place  where  Gallego  had  been 
pushed  off  the  precipice.  Some  dis 
tance  down  in  the  crevice  of  a  sharp 
angle  formed  by  a  slight  shelf  of 
rock  a  small  clump  of  cottonwood 
brush  had  rooted  stubbornly  and 
grown  with  the  sturdy  defiance  of 
that  heroic  tree,  the  pioneer  of  the 

(83) 


3fo  <$&  (jputmra 


plains.  Into  this  clump  Gallego  had 
crashed,  and  with  such  grip  as  he 
could  keep,  his  arms  bound  at  the 
elbows,  he  clung  to  the  rock  with 
desperate  grasp. 

Fra  Padilla  peered  over  the  top 
of  the  rock  and  listened. 

"He  is  not  dead.  He  is  caught 
down  there.  I  hear  him  groaning. 
Run,  Natana,  and  bring  me  a  rope. 
We  can  save  him.  Tristan!  Tris 
tan!"  he  called,  "hold  on  a  little 
longer." 

Natana  hastened  to  where  Isopete 
had  unbound  her  arms,  and  catching 
up  the  long  lariat  she  fled  up  the  steep 
ascent  again.  Father  Padilla  bound 
the  rope  about  her  waist  and  lowered 
her  carefully  down  to  where  Gallego 's 
body  was  caught.  The  shelf  of  rock 
was  very  narrow,  and  already  his 
hands  were  numb  from  the  grip,  but 
to  lose  his  hold  meant  a  fall  of  many 

(84) 


(Jtoititra 


feet  to  the  broken  rocks  below.  It 
took  all  of  Nat  ana's  agility  to  drag 
Gallego's  sword  from  its  sheath,  and, 
keeping  her  hold  on  the  rocky  ledge, 
to  cut  his  bonds.  Then  she  fastened 
the  rope  that  held  her  around  his 
body,  and  called  to  the  priest  to  draw 
him  up. 

Fra  Padilla  was  a  man  of  giant 
strength,  but  it  took  all  his  cunning 
to  bring  the  half -dead  form  to  the 
top  of  the  rock. 

"My  son,  my  dear,  dear  son,"  he 
cried  as  he  stretched  Gallego  on  the 
ground.  "You  must  not  die.  I 
could  never  forgive  myself  the  pen 
ance  I  put  on  you." 

Gallego  groaned  aloud,  then  tried 
to  rise. 

"Where  is  the  little  Pagan?"  he 
asked. 

The  priest  caught  his  breath. 

(85) 


"  I  had  forgotten  her.  She  is  down 
there." 

"  Not  dead  ? ' '  gasped  Gallego. 

"No,  no.  I  sent  her  after  you. 
I'll  lower  the  rope  to  her." 

Carefully  weighting  the  end  of  the 
rope  with  a  fragment  of  stone,  he 
lowered  it  to  Natana  on  the  angle 
below.  The  girl  bound  it  under  her 
arms,  and,  bruised  and  sore,  reached 
the  top.  In  her  hand  she  held  the 
sword. 

"I  wish  I  might  have  run  it 
through  the  villain  who  threw  me 
over,"  said  Gallego. 

"I  wish  you  had  lost  it  down 
there,"  said  Padilla.  "So  long  as  you 
make  it  your  strength  you  shut  out 
God's  power  from  your  heart." 

"  I  hope  he  may  never  know  whose 
heart  his  sword  missed  tonight," 
thought  Natana.  In  her  own  heart 
hope  was  born  anew.  Isopete  did 

(86) 


love  her,  else  why  should  he  have 
dared  so  much  tonight?  The  hope 
was  coupled  with  dread  of  danger  to 
Gallego,  for  whom  she  would  have 
died,  and  fear  of  the  result  of  such 
danger  to  Isopete,  whom  she  be 
lieved  now  would  die  for  her. 

The  three  rested  a  while  on  the 
rock's  crest,  and  then,  with  a  prayer 
such  as  never  the  night  air  about  that 
lone  rock  had  heard  before  in  all  its 
misty  centuries  of  time,  the  priest 
blessed  his  two  children,  and  lead 
ing  each  by  the  hand,  the  proud 
Spanish  knight  and  the  humble  In 
dian  slave,  they  passed  down  to  the 
sleeping  camp  and  sought  their  rest 
ing-places. 


(87) 


Some-love, 
Ipart. 

BetterTTeresy  in  doctrine 
Than  heresy  of  heart." 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

HERE    is    left    only    one 
thing  more  to  be  done." 
It  was  Francesco  de  Coro- 
nado  who  spoke  in  coun 
sel  with  his  knights. 

"  We  must  go  to  the  end  of 
Quivira,  and  then  —  return  to  New 
Spain." 

He  said  these  words  as  men  speak 
to  whom  the  ambition  of  a  lifetime 
has  brought  only  heartbreaking  loss. 
He  spoke  courageously.  And  yet 
the  real  hardship  of  all  this  long  ex 
cursion  of  failure  and  ruin  was  the 
return  to  Mendoza's  court,  to  be 

(89) 


In  ©to  <§utmra 


humiliated,  and  for  all  future  years 
plunged  into  poverty  and  obscurity. 
The  land  of  Quivira  lay  like  a  gar 
den  of  Eden,  as  matched  against  the 
sand-dunes  of  the  dreary  South 
west.  Northward  to  the  fertile  val 
ley  of  the  river  to  be  some  day 
known  as  the  Smoky  Hill,  they  jour 
neyed.  All  hope  of  gold  had  van 
ished  in  this  fat  black  soil.  East 
ward  for  a  time  they  took  their  way, 
to  where  the  river  joined  another  as 
large  as  itself  and  rolled  away  in 
one  broad,  beautiful  sweep  down  a 
valley  of  wild  loveliness.  In  years 
to  come  this  valley  of  the  Kaw 
would  yield  its  treasures  to  him  who 
should  conquer  the  land  itself,  and 
find  its  gold,  not  in  stubborn  rocks 
in  deep  dark  mines,  but  in  the  gold 
of  growing  grain,  the  wealth  of  the 
earth's  increase  to  him  who  will  sow 
by  its  waters. 

(90) 


In  <®to  <f  tttmra 


It  is  no  wonder  the  people  of 
Quivira  loved  their  land.  They 
digged  in  its  soil  and  planted  the 
seeds  of  pumpkin  and  beans  and 
maize.  They  made  snug  lodges,  of 
strong  poles  tied  together  with  lim 
ber  willow  withes,  and  overlaid  with 
heavy  sod.  They  had  warm  furs 
for  clothing  and  blankets.  They 
ate  the  juiciest  venison  and  buffalo 
meats.  They  had  Indian  pudding, 
dried  plums  and  grapes,  and  the 
kernels  of  wild  nuts  that  had  sweet 
ened  in  the  sun  and  frost  of  long 
rare  autumn  days.  They  were  brave 
and  free,  and  strong  and  faithful; 
and  Coronado,  who  was  of  nobler 
spirit  than  the  spirit  of  his  mother 
country,  left  them  as  he  found  them, 
unharmed  by  the  evil  touch  of  a 
corrupt  civilization.  Almost  a  score 
of  months  he  spent  in  reaching 

Quivira.     He  remained  in  the  king- 
on 


dom  hardly  more  than  a  score  of 
days,  passing,  before  his  return,  to 
its  farthest  eastern  limit. 

And  all  this  time  there  was  but 
one  soul  in  the  expedition  to  whom 
the  call  of  the  prairie  sounded  clear 
and  sweet.  Fra  Juan  Padilla,  who 
had  renounced  the  world  in  the  day 
of  his  greatest  military  achievement, 
felt  that  here  he  should  come  into 
his  own  for  all  his  earthly  days.  He 
was  now  the  happiest,  busiest  man 
in  all  Quivira.  His  commanding 
presence,  his  gentle  touch,  his  dark 
keen  eyes,  his  sweet  smile,  and  his 
sincere  love  for  all  men  as  his  own 
brothers,  made  his  days  full  of 
benediction  in  this  far  heathen  land. 
The  simple-hearted  Quivirans  came 
to  him  like  a  flock  to  its  shepherd, 
and  he  did  not  fail  them. 

And  where  all  this  time  was  the 
Turk  who  had  led  the  band  almost 

(92) 


Cputirtra 


to  its  utter  ruin  ?  For  one  night  his 
chains  had  been  removed  and  he 
had  obtained  a  brief  freedom.  He 
had  easily  eluded  the  guards  and  had 
made  the  hours  of  freedom  pay  him 
to  the  full.  It  was  he  who  had 
started  Isopete  up  the  rock  to  find 
Gallego  and  Natana  together.  Then 
he  had  passed  quickly  among  the 
Quivira  people,  whose  hunting-tents 
Coronado  had  so  recently  found  in 
the  cottonwood  grove.  He  told  his 
own  story,  showed  his  calloused 
wrists  and  ankles  chafed  by  the 
cruel  chains.  That  their  fate  would 
be  like  his  he  easily  put  as  a  sugges 
tion  into  their  minds,  and  left  it  to 
grow  there.  And,  cunningest  of  all, 
he  forced  upon  them  the  need  for 
keeping  Isopete  bitter  toward  the 
Spaniards.  In  that  alone,  done  se 
cretly  and  unknown  to  the  big  guide, 
he  assured  them  their  whole  safety 

(93) 


lay.  But  his  master-stroke  was 
made  when  he  begged  one  day  for 
Gallego  to  come  to  him.  In  a  well- 
feigned  penitence  for  his  own  mis 
deeds  he  sought  to  redeem  himself 
by  an  act  of  loyalty  to  Gallego. 
Isopete,  he  assured  the  young  knight, 
was  lying  in  wait  for  him.  Would 
try  to  kill  him.  Would  try  and 
try. 

"For,"  said  the  smooth  scoundrel, 
"he  told  me  himself  he  would  push 
you  over  the  great  rock  the  night  we 
lay  at  its  feet.  He  must  have  been 
afraid  to  try,  for  here  you  are,  but  it 
was  his  plan.  If  he  failed,  then  he 
will  try  something  else.  I  have 
warned  you." 

"So,"  said  Tristan,  "it  was  the 
faithful  guide  who  did  me  that 
wicked  turn.  And  why  ? ' ' 

Then  the  Turk  played  his  last 
trick. 

(94) 


3ftt 


"Because  you  love  his  Natana," 
he  hissed. 

"But  I  don't,"  said  Gallego. 

The  Turk  ground  his  teeth. 

"Then  why  do  you  not  leave  her 
alone?" 

Gallego  turned  without  another 
word  and  left  him. 

"It  is  well  for  all  of  us  that  man 
is  not  free,"  he  said  to  himself.  And 
then  the  human  nature  in  him  came 
uppermost.  He  forgot  the  Turk's 
scheming  nature. 

"What  is  there  left  for  me  in  this 
world  anyhow?"  he  said  in  excuse 
to  himself.  "I  may  as  well  have 
this  little  Quivira  pagan  for  my 
own.  Isopete  would  finish  me,  and 
the  Turk  would  kill  us  both  if  he 
could.  Why  not  end  it  all,  and  get 
Father  Juan  to  bless  us?  She  has 
risked  her  life  for  me.  So  would 
she  again.  Sometimes  I've  seen  her 

(95) 


3I«  (§l!n  (f  mutra 


standing  by  the  Father  when  she 
seemed  a  very  queen  in  this  wild 
land.  Why  should  I  not  be  a  king, 
her  king?  Teresita  is  lost." 

The  groan  that  followed  showed 
how  deep  and  incurable  was  that 
hidden  wound.  A  longing  for  the 
old  life,  for  Seville,  and  the  music 
of  moonlit  nights;  for  the  splendor 
of  the  Moorish  castles,  and  the 
solemn  chimes  of  old  cathedral  bells ; 
a  wave  of  homesick  anguish  swept 
his  soul. 

"I  will  put  it  all  by  forever,"  he 
muttered.  "I'll  marry  this  dear 
little  heathen  and  take  her  away 
somewhere  for  my  own.  If  she  is 
such  a  prize  to  these  two  rogues  they 
would  do  away  with  me,  she  must 
be  worth  all  she  costs." 

And  then,  because  Nat  ana  did  not 
seek  him,  but  dreamed  of  Isopete 
and  waited  for  his  sure  return, 

(96) 


Sit 


Gallego  began  to  watch  for  her 
coming  and  going.  She  was  doubly 
attractive  now  because  she  did  not 
think  of  him  save  as  one  she  would 
protect.  The  Turk  was  no  longer 
to  be  feared.  She  was  in  her  own 
land  again,  and  life  was  sweet  and 
full  of  promise  to  her.  A  low  song 
was  on  her  lips,  the  song  that  speaks 
of  deepest  happiness  now,  and  soft 
ens  only  a  little  by-and-by  into  the 
crooning  lullaby  for  blessed  baby 
hood.  So  ran  the  days  of  that  mid 
summer  in  Quivira  long  ago. 

Then  suddenly  there  came  an 
outbreak,  a  revolt,  and  that  little 
band  of  adventurous  men  were  face 
-to  face  with  treachery,  riot  and  vio 
lence.  The  time  was  well  chosen. 
Coronado  had  gone  for  a  two-days 
journey  to  the  northeast.  Father 
Padilla  was  miles  to  the  west,  ad- 

(97) 


(futmra 


ministering  to  a  little  village  stricken 
with  an  epidemic. 

Tristan  Gallego,  left  in  command, 
was  thinking  only  of  Natana,  and 
smiling  grimly  as  he  saw  the  burn 
ing  black  eyes  of  Isopete  watching 
him.  Back  of  it  all  was  the  Turk, 
whose  helplessness  had  gradually 
won  the  Quiviran  people  to  pity, 
then  to  exaltation.  He  used  Iso 
pete  as  his  weapon,  for  the  guide 
was  trusted  everywhere,  and  was 
strong  and  skillful. 

With  no  blare  of  noise  the  camp 
was  suddenly  surrounded,  and  in  a 
terse  declaration  of  war  Isopete  put 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  com 
mand.  Gallego  was  seized,  and 
thrust,  bound  and  under  guard,  into 
Coronado's  tent.  The  remaining 
knights,  surprised  and  leaderless, 
were  easily  overcome, —  and  the 


(981) 


3ltt  <®tf»  (jpmmra 


power  of  Spain  lay  at  the  mercy  of 
a  savage  foe. 

Before  pursuing  the  cause  to  com 
pletion  as  the  Turk  urged,  Isopete 
sought  Natana.  She  was  not  at 
Padilla's  tent.  Then  he  hurried  to 
Coronado's  tepee.  She  was  not  there. 
Over  the  entire  camp  he  searched. 
She  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Iso 
pete  forgot  his  command,  and  sat 
moodily  alone.  Messengers  from  the 
Turk  failed  to  move  him,  and  there 
was  the  strange  condition  of  con 
tending  forces,  each  lacking  a  com 
mander.  At  daybreak  Isopete  roused 
himself  to  action. 

"Let  us  slaughter  all  of  them  at 
sunrise,"  was  his  word  that  was 
borne  from  brave  to  brave;  and 
everything  was  put  in  readiness. 

That  was  the  grandest  August 
sunrise  that  ever  shone  on  Kansas. 
The  folds  of  a  morning  mist,  shot 


(99) 


itt 


through  with  a  purple  glory  that 
tinted  into  crimson,  rolled  back  in 
waves  of  splendor  before  the  great 
pageant  of  light  that  swung  up  the 
eastern  sky.  The  earth  was  one 
glistening  sheen  of  dewdrops,  and 
all  the  sweet  air  of  morning  was 
shimmering  with  reflected  color. 

Down  in  the  little  camp  all  this 
beauty  was  lost.  To  the  captive 
Spaniard  its  coming  meant  the  agony 
of  death  in  a  dreary  land.  To  the 
captors  it  meant  a  bloody  victory, 
foul  and  awful  in  its  every  part. 

Just  as  the  sun  rose  clear  of  the 
horizon-line,  there  swept  across  the 
camp  a  cry  of  mingled  joy  and 
pleading.  It  was  a  woman's  voice, 
Natana's.  And  down  into  the  very 
midst  of  the  angry  Indians  strode 
Father  Padilla,  with  swift,  strong 
steps.  Never  so  like  a  giant  had  he 
seemed  before.  His  dark  eyes  burned 


(100) 


(jpuromt 


with  the  fire  of  power.  In  his  right 
hand  was  the  crucifix.  Alone,  un 
armed,  he  came  among  them,  and  in 
the  strength  of  his  heroism  they  lost 
their  might. 

"On  earth,  peace;  goodwill  to 
ward  men."  How  full  and  rich  his 
voice  was!  Like  the  balm  of  deep 
melodious  music  it  fell  upon  the  ears 
of  victors  and  victims.  The  Quivira 
Indians  fell  at  his  feet,  pleading  for 
his  blessing.  From  the  hearts  of  the 
knights  the  weight  of  an  awful  peril 
was  lifted.  In  an  hour  the  camp 
was  in  order,  and  the  noontide 
welcomed  the  return  of  Coronado. 
Everything  fell  into  its  place  except 
this:  No  longer  must  the  Turk  be 
kept  alive,  and  with  him  Isopete 
must  perish.  It  was  Coronado's  or 
der,  and  he  was  commander  there. 

"But  Isopete  is  your  best  guide," 


(101) 


3Jn  ©lit  (Thrimra 


urged  Fra  Padilla,   "and  the  Turk 
has  been  his  undoing." 

"What  say  you,  Gallego?"  ques 
tioned  Coronado. 

"Kill  him,  by  all  means;  choke 
him  with  the  Turk.  I  wish  they 
were  done  for  now." 

And  the  hour  of  midnight  was 
agreed  upon. 

In  the  long  August  afternoon  the 
priest  led  Tristan  away  to  the  shade 
of  a  tall  cottonwood  tree  growing 
huge  and  rank  above  the  river-bank. 

"Tristan  Gallego,"  said  the  priest 
slowly,  "two  days  more  and  we  shall 
be  at  the  end  of  Quivira.  Then  we 
turn  back.  You  are  young  —  only 
twenty-seven.  The  years  are  before 
you.  Your  sorrow  has  been  deep. 
Your  life  has  been  snatched  from 
certain  death  many  times.  I  love 
you  as  if  you  had  been  my  own  son. 


(102) 


Tell  me  why  you  condemn  this  Indian 
guide.  Tell  me  only  the  truth." 

Gallego  looked  straight  into  the 
priest's  eyes. 

"Because  he  loves  Natana.  And 
I  am  coming  to  you  tomorrow  to  ask 
you  to  bless  us,  the  little  girl  and  me. 
I  want  her  myself  now." 

"Tristan  Gallego,  you  shall  not 
condemn  to  death  that  you  alone 
may  be  safe.  There  is  no  safety 
save  in  the  Prince  of  Peace.  You 
loved  Teresita  Morello?" 

Tristan's  hands  clenched. 

"Oh,  more  than  my  life,  good 
Father." 

"Would  you  have  had  her  marry 
one  she  did  not  love?" 

"No,  never,  never." 

"My  son,  Natana  does  not  love 
you.  She  has  saved  your  life  twice, 
even  many  times  more  although  you 
knew  it  not.  Yet  in  the  outbreak 

(103) 


Slit 


yesterday  she  left  you  to  your  fate 
and  came  all  the  long  miles  to  find 
me  that  I  might  come  and  save 
Isopete.  He  was  free  and  you  im 
periled.  Yet  it  was  of  him  she 
thought.  Would  you  take  her  from 
him?" 

"Oh,  Father,  the  little  girl  is  dear 
to  me,  and  with  her  alone  can  I  for 
get  Spain." 

"Selfish  still!  Is  not  your  heart 
yet  ready  ?  My  son,  you  cursed  the 
church  that  last  Christmas  Eve  in 
Compostela.  You  have  been  made 
to  suffer  in  all  this  long  journey; 
more  than  you  thought  or  dreamed 
has  the  church  laid  heavy  hand  on 
you.  Will  you  take  from  Isopete 
what  Da  Garda  took  from  you?" 

Tristan  Gallego  stood  up  to  his 
full  height.  The  hard  bitter  spirit  was 
gone  in  that  moment,  and  a  chas 
tened  gentleness  came  into  his  eyes. 

(  104) 


"What  shall  I  do?" 

"Go  to  Coronado  and  secure  the 
release  of  Isopete." 

"Then  the  Quiviran  will  run  me 
through  with  my  own  sword  if  he 
can  before  midnight." 

"You  must  give  him  your  sword 
to  prove,  not  him,  but  yourself." 

"Let  me  think,  let  me  think," 
Gallego  pleaded. 

"Well,  meet  me  here  at  sunset." 
A  gentle  hand-clasp,  and  then  the 
tall  priest  stooped  and  kissed  the 
young  man's  forehead,  and  so  left 
him. 

' '  Wherein  does  his  real  power  lie  ? " 
queried  Tristan.  "Is  it  that  God 
can  make  a  man  like  that  whose 
heart  was  crushed  as  mine  has 
been  ?  The  sword  of  Coronado  can 
not  do  here  what  that  man's  love 
can  win.  Nay,  I  believe  the  king 
of  Spain  himself  would  be  impotent 

(105) 


3ltt  (£&  ($umra 


before  this  ambassador  of  the  Prince 
of  Peace  whom  he  serves." 

And  then  Tristan  Gallego  lifted 
his  right  hand  to  heaven,  and  in  a 
deep  wordless  petition  he  prayed. 
To  the  ear  of  heaven  his  pleading 
ran: 

"I,  Tristan  Gallego,  give  up  here 
this  only  pleasure,  my  fondness  for 
a  poor  Indian  girl,  because  I  may  not 
keep  it.  I  give  her  lover  back  to  her, 
and  go  my  way,  bravely  now  if  only 
I  may  hold  to  thee,  O  pitying  God, 
and  trust  thee  for  what  the  years 
shall  bring." 

At  the  sunset  hour  Tristan  and 
Isopete  stood  by  the  river's  brink. 
Its  yellow  waters  rolled  ceaselessly 
by.  The  valley  below  was  quiet  in 
the  blessed  hush  of  a  late  summer 
day.  The  western  sky  was  a  sea  of 
glass  mingled  with  fire,  and  all  the 
wide  plains  of  Kansas  lay  tranquil 

(106) 


(£mmnt 


and  beautiful  in  their  grand  soli 
tude. 

Isopete 's  dark  eyes  were  full  of 
hate  as  he  came  face  to  face  with  his 
rival.  With  the  grace  of  a  Spanish 
gentleman  Gallego  came  forward. 

"  Isopete,"  he  said,  "you  should  be 
killed  tonight  at  midnight,  for  you 
deserve  to  die.  And  yet  you  have 
been  a  brave,  true  guide.  It  was 
only  your  love  for  a  girl  that  turned 
your  heart  against  the  white  man. 
I  could  keep  her  from  you,  for  I  am 
stronger  than  you.  My  word  can 
save  you  or  put  you  to  death  before 
tomorrow's  sunrise.  You  are  swift 
and  cunning.  Should  you  live  you 
could  find  a  way  to  end  my  life. 
Let  us  both  live.  I  have  spoken 
for  you  to  Coronado.  He  will  not 
destroy  you.  And  you  are  free. 
But  more  than  this  "--the  young 
man  stepped  forward  to  Isopete  — 

(  107) 


3ht 


"here  is  my  sword.  I  am  unarmed. 
No  one  will  see  us  in  this  place. 
You  can  kill  me  here  if  you  wish, 
but  I  do  not  fear  you.  The  power 
Fra  Padilla  teaches  is  become  my 
strength." 

Isopete  took  the  sword.  Its  glit 
tering  blade  was  temptingly  ready. 
He  fingered  it  softly. 

"Keep  it,  Isopete.  I  do  not  want 
it  again."  He  spoke  simply,  as 
though  he  had  bestowed  a  trifling 
trinket  upon  a  friend.  "You  will 
never  draw  it  without  reason.  And 
here  I  prove  to  you  I  take  away  all 
reason  why  you  should  draw  it 
against  me." 

Fra  Padilla  and  Natana  had  come 
softly  behind  Isopete  at  that  mo 
ment,  and  now  the  priest  led  the 
girl  to  her  lover's  side. 

Natana  was  beautiful  to  the  eyes 
of  all  there  as  she  stood  in  the  even- 

(108) 


ing  light.  The  sunset  beyond  her 
sent  long  level  rays  of  radiance 
across  the  landscape.  The  sky 
seemed  to  bend  down  in  loving  bene 
diction,  and  the  softest  of  floating 
pink  clouds  hung  like  bridal  drapery 
about  the  east,  decking  the  great 
marriage-hall  of  Nature.  Natana's 
long  black  hair  hung  in  two  heavy 
braids  about  her  shoulders;  her 
richly  beaded  skirt,  her  bright 
blanket,  and  her  brown  face  lighted 
by  glorious  dark  eyes,  seemed  some 
how  the  only  type  of  woman  who 
could  grace  that  picture.  So  a  part 
of  it  all  she  was. 

"Isopete,  I  give  thee  this  little 
sister  for  thy  own.  I  was  so  fond 
of  her,"  his  lip  trembled,  "and  she 
was  good  to  me." 

He  turned  without  another  word 
and  strode  away.  A  mist  was  before 
his  eyes,  and  Natana's  sympathetic 

(109) 


face  was  changing  to  the  face  of  a 
beautiful  Spanish  girl  who  wore  for 
the  first  time  in  all  his  pictures  of 
her,  such  a  look  of  pleading  he 
groaned  aloud. 

"Oh,  Teresita,  Teresita,  have  I 
wounded  you  by  my  folly?  It  is 
all  over  now." 

And  in  the  gray  evening  shadows 
he  sought  his  tent  to  pray. 

Before  the  sun  rose  the  next  morn 
ing  the  forlorn  little  band  took  up 
its  last  eastward  pilgrimage.  For 
two  days  the  march  continued.  The 
way  was  pleasant,  for  Nature  had 
blessed  the  valley  with  all  the  beauty 
of  a  wild  rich  land,  where  even  in 
late  midsummer  the  grasses  grew 
lush  and  green,  and  a  thousand 
golden  blossoms  bent  before  the  soft 
rippling  breezes  that  poured  over 
them  like  the  waves  of  an  invisible 
sea.  The  heat  of  the  day  was  piti- 

(110) 


in  <®to  <$ srirint 


less,  but  the  nights  were  calm  and 
clear  and  cool.  Gone  out  of  all  hope 
were  the  barbaric  cities  with  their 
pagan  temples  and  jewel-tricked 
idols.  The  march  held  nothing  more 
than  the  fulfillment  of  the  mere  dec 
laration  that  they  had  gone  to  the 
end  of  Quivira. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  the  second 
day  the  company  passed  to  the  top 
of  a  low  divide  between  two  north 
ward-flowing  streams  that  emptied 
into  the  great  river.  Its  slopes  were 
soft  with  grass,  but  on  the  crest  was 
a  stunted  herbage.  A  few  rectan 
gular  blocks  of  stone  were  here,  and 
many  a  pink  boulder  brought  hither 
by  the  old  glacier  of  a  bygone  era  of 
time.  Beyond  the  farther  slope  the 
river  stretched  like  a  spread  of 
molten  steel  toward  the  vanishing 
east.  And  everywhere  as  though 
they  stood  in  the  very  center  of  the 
(ni) 


universe,  there  unrolled  before  their 
eyes  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
such  as  no  artist  will  ever  cast  on 
canvas. 

"Oh,  it  is  magnificent!"  said  Fra 
Padilla  as  he  stood  upon  the  crest  of 
the  divide  and  drew  in  a  deep  breath 
of  the  cool  summer  air.  ' '  Was  there 
ever  a  land  so  beautiful  as  this? 
The  peace  of  God  is  everywhere. 
Shall  there  ever  come  hither  a  nation 
who  will  love  it  for  itself,  and  grow 
strong  and  free  in  this  strong  free 
realm  ?  Will  there  ever  be  a  Sabbath 
here,  and  the  benediction  of  the  Al 
mighty  fall  upon  a  reverent  people  ?  " 

Coronado  stood  beside  the  good 
man  with  folded  arms  and  set  white 
face. 

Isopete  approached,  and  touched 
his  hand. 

"This,  good  Coronado,  is  the  end 
of  Quivira.  All  that  lies  beyond  this 

(112) 


In 


ridge  is  the  land  of  other  tribes.  We 
are  at  peace  with  them,  but  we  go 
not  thither  except  for  cause." 

Coronado  bowed  his  head.  He 
murmured,  "This  then  is  the  end  of 
our  journey,  the  ending  of  our  hopes 
and  dreams  and  high  ambitions  and 
earnest  prayers.  We  have  done 
what  we  could,  and  there  remains 
nothing  more  for  us  here.  Only  God 
Omnipotent  knows  how  and  when 
these  lands  shall  be  discovered  and 
for  whom  He  has  guarded  this  good 
fortune." 

Long  the  brave  commander  stood, 
as  one  may  stand  by  the  bier  where 
lies  the  form  that  has  held  the  life 
that  was  dearest  to  him.  Then  with 
his  own  hands  he  gathered  together 
a  store  of  pink  boulders  about  a 
block  of  limestone  that  lay  on  the 
highest  point.  Slowly  and  patiently 
he  built  upon  this  base  a  rude  stone 

(113) 


cross,  its  yellow-gray  form  contrast 
ing  in  color  with  the  heaps  of  round 
pink  stones  piled  about  it.  Then 
slowly  he  etched  deep  in  the  base  of 
the  cross  the  inscription : 

"  FRANCESCO  VASQUEZDE  CORONADO, 

GENERAL  OF  THE  ARMY, 

ARRIVED  HERE." 

All  the  heart-break  of  a  lost  life- 
ambition  was  in  that  rude  inscrip 
tion,  all  the  longing  for  remembrance, 
all  the  dread  of  oblivion. 

The  company  slept  that  night  at 
the  foot  of  the  slope.  When  they 
pitched  their  tents  at  the  close  of  the 
next  day  they  were  many  miles  to 
the  southwest. 

By  a  much  shorter  route  than  the 
wicked  Turk  had  led  them  Isopete 
guided  the  Spaniards  straight  away 
toward  Tewa,  where  the  remainder 
of  Coronado's  band  awaited  their  re 
turn. 

(114) 


<$  ittmra 


On  the  second  day's  journey  to 
ward  home  they  passed  the  spot 
where  the  bones  of  the  Turk  were  to 
moulder  in  a  nameless  grave.  Tris 
tan  Gallego  with  Fra  Padilla  lingered 
by  it  for  a  brief  time.  A  strangely 
tender  feeling  came  to  the  young 
knight's  heart.  Taking  from  his 
neck  a  small  ivory  cross,  he  buried 
it  deep  in  the  dry  clods  of  the  grave. 

"Poor  wretch!"  he  murmured. 
"How  many  lives  are  wrecked  by 
evil  guides.  God  pity  him." 

Fra  Padilla  lifted  his  hands  in  si 
lent  prayer  for  the  soul  of  the  Turk, 
and  then  he  turned  to  Gallego. 

"He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret 
place  of  the  Most  High,  shall  abide 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty." 

He  spoke  the  words  with  the  rev 
erent  grace  that  made  all  his  utter 
ances  like  benedictions. 

The   two   stood   still   a   moment 

(  115) 


longer,  and  then  they  hastened  on  to 
the  little  band  straggling  bravely 
toward  the  southwest. 


(116) 


/And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
n'i 

Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

"  Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 
The  chimes  of  eternal  peace." 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

T  was  early  autumn  when 
Coronado's  company,  rag 
ged,  worn,  browned  by  a 
fierce  September  sun,  and 
crushed  with  a  sense  of  failure  and 
impending  degradation,  reached  the 
mud-walled  village  of  Tewa.  From 
this  point  they  had  no  further  need 
for  Isopete,  and  he  tarried  only 
briefly ;  for  his  heart  was  in  Quivira 
with  Natana.  His  grief  at  parting 
with  Fra  Padilla  was  pitiful.  • 

(  117) 


3ln 


"Come,  come  back  with  me,"  he 
wailed.  "Natana  wants  you.  All 
my  people  want  you.  There  are 
scores  and  scores  of  holy  men  down 
that  way,"  pointing  toward  the 
south.  "Come  where  there  is  not 
one.  You  have  no  wife,  no  child,  no 
home.  You  never  will  have.  Come 
and  guide  us  from  the  kingdom  of 
Quivira  to  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

Tristan  Gallego  stood  by  Fra  Pa- 
dilla. 

"Why,  neither  have  I  any  of  these, 
Isopete,"  he  said  gently. 

Isopete  fell  at  his  feet,  and  draw 
ing  the  sword  Gallego  had  given  him 
from  his  belt,  he  held  it  up  in  offer 
ing. 

"Take  your  sword,  good  Span 
iard.  Go  fight  and  win  many  lands. 
It  is  a  beautiful  sword.  Isopete 
loves  it,  for  you  gave  it  to  him. 
Take  it  again." 

(  118) 


3ltt 


Gallego  gently  put  down  his  hand. 

"Keep  the  sword.  I  shall  never 
fight  for  lands.  Keep  it  so  long  as 
you  let  it  hang  in  your  tepee  the 
sign  between  us  that  we  would  save 
life,  not  seek  to  destroy  it.  May  it 
rest  and  rust  in  your  beautiful 
Quivira  many  long  years,  the  symbol 
only  of  a  life  that  was." 

Father  Padilla  put  both  arms  lov 
ingly  around  the  young  Spaniard. 

"My  son,  my  son,  you  are  ready 
now.  Your  penance  is  ended.  You 
would  not  curse  the  church  now." 

"God  forbid,"  said  Gallego  in  deep 
reverence. 

Padilla's  face  shone  with  a  beauty 
such  as  the  old  masters  would  put 
into  the  faces  of  the  Apostles. 

"Now  I  may  go  where  my  heart 
leads  me.  The  call  of  the  plains  is 
in  my  ears.  The  lure  of  that  vast 
solemn  land,  that  beautiful  solitude, 

(  119) 


is  strong  upon  me.  I  must  go  again 
to  Quivira.  To  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth  the  blessed  gospel  must 
be  borne.  And  into  my  hands  is  it 
given  to  carry  it  thither.  Isopete,  I 
shall  return  with  you  when  you  de 
part  tomorrow.  From  henceforth 
my  way  leads  me  from  the  haunts 
of  civilized  men,  but  not  from  the 
abode  of  needy  human  souls.  Al 
ways  I  shall  see  the  spires  of  the 
beautiful  cathedrals  of  Spain,  and 
the  candles  and  the  holy  altars. 
And  always  will  the  chime  of  cathe 
dral  bells  sound  in  my  ears;  but  I 
shall  go  to  where  these  things  may 
never  be  for  me.  I  must  walk  in  a 
way  where  later  the  feet  of  many  a 
holier  man  than  I  shall  run  with 
ease  and  find  all  these  tokens  of 
men's  genius  and  power.  What  I 
must  do  I  must  do.  No  man  may 

(  120  )        • 


(f  utmra 


read  another's  duty  to  him  so  clearly 
as  he  may  read  it  for  himself. 

' '  Go,  now,  Isopete.  Tomorrow  to 
gether  we  shall  journey  forth  again 
toward  the  land  of  the  sunrise,  to 
ward  our  Quivira.  Yours  and  mine 
-and  His." 

He  pointed  toward  the  crucifix  in 
his  hand. 

When  Isopete  had  gone,  Tristan 
Gallego  sat  with  bowed  head. 

"You  are  right,  good  Father," 
he  said.  "No  man  may  read  an 
other's  duty  so  clearly  as  he  can 
read  it  for  himself.  I  thought  my 
self  strong.  Oh,  Father,  what  shall 
I  do  without  you  ? " 

And  then  Fra  Padilla  stood  up 
before  his  young  friend  with  a  joy 
in  his  face  such  as  Tristan  had  never 
seen  on  any  face  before. 

"Let  us  go  where  the  air  is  cool, 
my  boy.  I  have  a  message  for  you. ' ' 

(121) 


Involuntarily  the  memory  of  the 
same  words  from  Father  Padilla 
nearly  two  years  before  came  with  a 
start  to  Tristan.  The  two  sat  down 
outside  the  village  wall  and  looked 
out  over  the  wide  Arizona  plain. 

"When  I  came  to  you  with  a 
message  once,  Tristan  Gallego,  you 
cursed  the  church  in  the  bitterness 
of  your  soul.  It  was  bitterness  and 
not  real  blasphemy  that  moved  you, 
I  knew  it  then;  and  yet  one  must 
not  curse,  even  in  bitterness.  At  the 
altar  that  night  I  vowed  a  penance 
on  you.  It  came  sooner  than  I  had 
thought.  I  am  ready  tonight  to  re 
lease  you.  Listen,  Tristan.  On  the 
Saturday  night  before  we  left  Com- 
postela,  Pedro  the  courier  brought 
me  letters  from  Old  Spain.  The 
news  of  one  I  could  hardly  have  kept 
but  for  my  vow,  so  great  was  my 
love  for  you.  But  you  had  sinned. 

(122) 


The  letter  told  how  Count  Da  Garda 
had  been  killed  three  days  before 
Christmas  by  a  fall  from  the  window 
of  his  high  tower.  Too  much  wine. 
But  the  letter  said  further,  that  Ter- 
esita  Morello  had  utterly  refused  to 
wed  him.  That  may  have  added  to 
his  already  too  greedy  appetite 
for  wine.  Furthermore,  this  Teresita 
declared  she  would  never  wed  save 
where  her  heart  was  wedded  too; 
that  is,  to  Tristan  Gallego." 

Tristan  clasped  the  Father's  hand, 
but  uttered  no  sound. 

:<You  were  poor,  Tristan,  and 
proud,  and  —  you  had  cursed  the 
Holy  Church.  You  could  not  have 
gone  to  her  poor.  Coronado's  ex 
pedition  seemed  to  offer  you  gold. 
But  for  your  sin  you  must  not  know 
of  this  love  till  you  had  proved  your 
self.  I  sent  Pedro  post-haste  on  the 
morning  we  left  Compostela  to  the 

(123) 


3ltt 


coast  towns  with  messages  for  the 
first  ship.  For  Teresita,  and  —  for 
my  friend  whom  you  do  not  know." 

The  good  man  paused,  as  one  who 
hesitates  to  reopen  a  sad  and  sacred 
past. 

"You  remember,  my  boy,  the 
story  I  told  you  of  the  soldier  who 
became  a  priest?" 

"Yes,  Father,"  said  Gallego  in  a 
low  voice. 

"The  Nina  whom  he  loved  was 
married  to  Francesco  Morello,  and 
her  daughter  is  Teresita  Morello. 
When  the  young  commander  re 
nounced  the  world  he  did  not  put 
his  fortune,  which  was  large,  into 
the  church.  I  said  '  he  put  it  away.' 
Instead  of  losing  control  of  it,  he 
gave  it  into  a  banker's  hands  in 
trust.  The  friend  to  whom  I  sent 
letters  by  Pedro  was  this  banker. 
The  fortune  and  its  increase  was  to 

(124) 


3f« 


revert  to  the  daughter  of  Nina  Mo- 
rello  if  she  should  wed  the  man  of  her 
choice,  unless  I  chose  to  alter  the  be 
quest  myself.  I  did  alter  it.  I  gave 
this  friend  my  last  order  before  I  left 
Compostela,  in  the  letter  Pedro  took 
away.  It  was  that  one  Tristan  Gal- 
lego,  on  his  return  to  Spain,  should 
have  this  fortune  entire  and  untram- 
meled  when  he  should  marry  Teresita 
Morello.  Should  she  die,  or  wed  an 
other,  the  money  was  still  his  own; 
but  should  he  prove  untrue  to  the 
child  of  my  loved  dead  Nina,  then 
the  money  should  go  into  the  coffers 
of  the  Holy  Church. 

"  Tomorrow  morning  " —  the  priest 
spoke  now  in  a  voice  whose  low 
melody  was  full  of  sweetness  -  "  To 
morrow  morning  I  shall  bid  you  good- 
by  forever.  Every  hardship  of  the 
life  before  me  will  be  softened  to 
ease  by  the  thought  of  your  new  life 

(125) 


in  Spain,  and  my  one  earthly  joy 
will  be  your  happiness,  and  hers, — 
the  little  Teresita  who  waits  for  you 
in  the  vine-draped  gardens  of  Se 
ville." 

Tristan  Gallego  had  known  Father 
Padilla  too  long  and  well  to  misun 
derstand  him  now.  To  try  to  per 
suade  him  to  renounce  the  wilderness 
and  return  to  Spain  would  have  been 
useless. 

There  are  moments  in  life  whose 
emotions  no  word  may  express. 
Down  all  the  long  years  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  Tristan  Gallego  never 
lost  the  inspiration  of  the  last  hand 
clasp  and  unspoken  benediction  of 
Fra  Padilla,  when  the  two  bade  each 
other  good-by  on  the  lonely  sun- 
swathed  plains  of  Arizona. 

In  the  harbor  of  San  Lucar  the 
good  ship  Santa  Carina  had  been 

(126) 


3ltt  <®U>  (jpittmra 


long  due,  and  now  it  was  the  Christ 
mas-time  again.  In  the  churches 
the  candles  burned  and  chants  were 
sung  and  masses  were  said.  All 
Spain  was  in  its  holiday  spirit.  And 
yet  one  heart  in  Seville  was  heavy 
this  Christmastide.  Teresita  Morello 
—  more  beautiful  now  than  in  the 
years  of  her  careless,  happy  girlhood, 
for  that  her  face  wore  the  cast  of  the 
chastening  spirit  of  patience  —  had 
hoped  and  waited  and  loved  through 
three  long  years  without  one  word 
from  across  the  wide  Atlantic.  The 
world  which  is  girdled  now  by  the 
speaking  wires  of  men's  devising  was 
so  vast  and  uncertain  and  unknown 
in  the  day  of  Spanish  conquest.  As 
the  months  went  by,  the  slow  dying 
of  buoyant  hope,  the  even  round  of 
patient  waiting,  were  come  now  to 
the  hour  of  resignation.  Teresita 
Morello 's  prayer  on  Christmas  Eve 

(127) 


3ftt  (§&  (Jutmra 


was  only  for  strength  to  endure. 
No  longer  could  she  ask  for  her  hope's 
fulfillment. 

On  the  twenty-fourth  of  Decem 
ber,  1542,  the  Santa  Carina,  battered 
by  shipwreck  and  tossed  by  contrary 
winds  far  from  her  course  through 
many  weeks  of  her  voyage,  came  sail 
ing  up  the  harbor  waters  as  a  bird 
flies  home  to  its  nest.  It  came  from 
the  New  World,  and  its  welcome  was 
like  what  no  ship  will  ever  have  in 
these  later  years,  for  it  brought  a 
wealth  of  messages  to  waiting  friends, 
and  stories  of  life  in  the  young  civili 
zation  of  the  Western  Hemisphere. 

The  bells  of  Seville  were  pealing 
out  their  glad  song  of  joy  on  this 
Christmas  morning.  "  Glory  to  God 
in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace, 
goodwill  toward  men,"  was  the  bur 
den  of  their  glad  refrain.  In  the  hall 
of  the  old  palace  of  Da  Garda  Ter- 

(128) 


esita  Morello  sat  before  the  bright 
wood  fire,  gazing  intently  into  its 
heart  of  cheery  flame.  The  heavy 
hangings  of  the  doorway  parted,  a 
step  on  the  marble  floor,  and  Tristan 
Gallego  stood  once  more  beside  the 
girl  he  loved. 

"Whom  God  hath  joined  to 
gether,"  the  benediction  of  heaven 
shall  compass  about  with  peace  and 
joy. 

It  was  Christmastide  in  far  Qui- 
vira.  In  the  center  of  the  largest 
village  stood  a  cross,  the  shrine  of 
all  this  little  band.  Father  Padilla 
stood  at  the  doorway  of  Isopete's 
tepee.  Natana  and  a  group  of  In 
dian  women  were  gathered  about 
him,  and  beyond  them  stood  the 
Indian  braves.  Love  and  trust  were 
seen  on  every  face. 

During  the  months  that  followed 

(129) 


3ftt 


the  return  of  Padilla  to  Quivira  the 
blessing  of  heaven  had  fallen  abun 
dantly  upon  him.  Like  children 
eager  for  knowledge,  the  simple- 
hearted  Quivirans  accepted  his  mes 
sage.  And  because  he  himself  so 
lived  the  thing  he  taught,  they  could 
not  fail  to  understand  it  and  to  go 
themselves  in  the  way  his  footsteps 
fell.  Those  months  had  brought 
more  joy  to  the  noble-hearted  priest 
than  all  the  years  of  his  priesthood 
before. 

"It  is  only  the  first  seed-sowing," 
he  had  said  to  himself.  "  There  may 
be  only  one  poor  harvest  now,  and 
yet  it  is  the  beginning  here.  The 
Lord  has  chosen  me  to  go  first  into 
this  land  and  be  His  light-bearer. 
So  He  has  strengthened  my  hands 
for  this  work,  and,  blessed  be  His 
holy  name,  He  is  with  me  here  as 
He  was  with  me  in  Old  Spain." 

(130) 


3ltt  <$&  <f  utrnni 


At  this  Christmas-time  approach 
ing  Padilla  had  hoped  to  carry  home 
to  the  Indian  heart  the  beautiful 
story  and  beautiful  lesson  with  a 
power  new  to  them.  His  soul  was 
full  of  joy.  Like  a  little  child  in 
happy  anticipation  of  good  things 
to  come,  he  awaited  the  dawn  of  the 
holy  day.  In  all  its  coming  he  re 
gretted  only  one  thing:  he  longed 
just  once  for  the  sound  of  cathedral 
bells  on  Christmas  morning.  But 
his  joy  was  not  to  be  realized.  For 
duty  his  Supreme  Ruler  willed  other 
things  for  him. 

The  Indian  mind  is  cunning.  The 
neighboring  tribes  were  not  slow  in 
learning  of  the  strange  new  order  in 
Quivira. 

"The  Quivira  is  crazy,"  they  said; 
"a  medicine -man  has  bewitched 
them.  They  have  buried  their  tom 
ahawks  and  they  fall  down  before  a 

(131) 


3tt  (Pto  Qputtrtra 


cross  of  stone.  They  do  not  scalp 
their  enemies,  but  let  them  go  un 
hurt.  We  shall  all  be  so  if  this  med 
icine-man  Padilla  stays  here." 

"Quivira  is  a  fertile  land,"  they 
said  to  each  other.  "  If  Quivira  will 
not  fight,  let  us  go  in  and  take  the 
land  and  destroy  all  the  tribe.  But 
first  we  must  be  rid  of  Padilla.  The 
tribe  will  dig  up  all  the  tomahawks 
for  him,  so  much  they  love  him. 
And  left  alone,  an  Indian  is  an  In 
dian  still.  We  must  rid  us  of  this 
bad  Padilla.  But  how?" 

That  it  should  be  done  openly  and 
violently  they  were  too  wise  to  at 
tempt.  And  so  they  planned  darkly. 

Two  days  before  Christmas  a  mes 
senger  came  pleading  in  a  strange 
tongue  for  help. 

"My  people,"  he  said,  "are  sick. 
They  have  heard  of  you.  They  are 
only  two  days  to  the  southeast. 

(132) 


3ftt  <$to  (Qvtoto* 


Come  and  save  them,  good  Padilla. 
You  are  said  to  love  all  men.  They 
are  all  your  brothers." 

The  Indian  pressed  a  kiss  on  Pa- 
dilla's  cheek  as  he  spoke.  So  Judas 
Iscariot  had  betrayed  the  Christ  fif 
teen  centuries  before. 

"Do  not  leave  us,  good  Father," 
plead  Nat  ana  and  all  the  women. 

"We  fear  for  you,"  declared  Iso- 
pete.  "Stay  with  us.  Do  not  be 
lieve  him,"  pointing  to  the  messen 
ger. 

"Have  ye  so  learned  Christ?" 
asked  the  Father  gently.  And  they 
let  him  go. 

How  lonely  was  the  village  then! 
In  Isopete's  tent  the  Indians  gath 
ered  and  talked  of  Padilla. 

"  He  will  be  back  by  the  day  after 
tomorrow,"  they  said.  "We  are  to 
have  a  holy-day." 

In  the  tepee  hung  the  sword  of 

(133) 


3ln  ($to  (fmmra 


Tristan  Gallego,  and  the  Indians 
touched  it  as  a  sacred  thing. 

"  If  the  good  father  comes  not  back 
we  will  take  this  sword  to  avenge  his 
death."  But  Isopete  and  Natana 
shook  their  heads. 

"  It  is  no  longer  to  kill  that  we  keep 
this  sword,"  they  said.  The  Qui- 
virans  only  frowned. 

"A  sword  is  made  to  kill  or  else 
to  be  buried  like  our  tomahawks," 
they  said. 

Father  Padilla  was  led  on  toward 
the  southeast,  and  came  after  a  two- 
days  journey  to  where  the  beautiful 
Neosho  now  ripples  over  rocky  ways, 
through  a  beautiful  grove.  In  all 
Quivira  no  forest  trees  grew  as  these 
trees  grew  here.  They  were  leafless 
now,  and  the  smoke  from  many 
skin  lodges  floated  up  through  their 
branches. 

"It   is  a  beautiful  land  for  my 

(134) 


(f  mmra 


Christmas  if  I  may  only  help  these 
brethren.  My  Quivira  children  will 
await  my  coming  patiently.  Already 
I  am  building  up  a  home  in  these 
plains." 

So  mused  Fra  Padilla  as  he  was 
led  from  tent  to  tent.  He  found  no 
sick  nor  broken-spirited  ones,  and 
his  wonder  grew  to  a  certain  conclu 
sion:  The  scowling  faces  and  cold 
angry  gestures  could  mean  only  one 
thing  —  he  was  in  the  hands  of 
enemies ! 

At  the  dawn  of  Christmas  day  he 
stood  on  a  bluff  above  the  river.  A 
wide  circle  of  savages  shut  him  in. 
Not  one  pitying  face  was  there.  Pa 
dilla  turned  his  eyes  for  the  last  time 
on  the  wide  sweeping  Kansas  prairies 
on  which  the  rare  December  day  was 
pouring  out  its  chrism  of  opal  splen 
dor. 

"My    Father" — that    voice    was 

(135) 


3ltt 


never  so  rich  and  full  and  sweet  as 
now — "my  Father,  I  would  have 
lived  for  this  beautiful  land.  I 
would  have  lived  for  Thee  here. 
Let  me  die  for  Thee  here,  Thy  first 
martyr,  but  not  Thy  last  on  these 
plains." 

And  then  as  his  eyes  caught  sight 
of  the  jagged  murderous  stones  the 
Indians  held  ready  to  hurl  at  him, 
the  love  of  the  Christ  triumphed. 

"Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do." 

Clear  as  in  the  day  on  Mount  Cal 
vary  those  loving  words  rang  out 
for  a  sinful  world,  they  sounded  now 
on  the  desolate  prairie  of  the  new 
West. 

Just  one  wish  was  Padilla's  at  that 
moment  —  a  human  longing  for  the 
sound  of  the  old  church-bells  of 
Spain.  A  savage  whoop  and  a  storm 
of  cruel  stones  beat  against  Juan 

(136) 


3(tt  <§to  (  utmra 


Padilla,  crushing  him  to  the  earth. 
But  the  good  priest  felt  it  not.  In 
his  ears  was  the  music  of  cathedral 
chimes  —  rich  and  full  and  strong 
the  old,  old  chant  of  victory, "GLORY 

TO  GOD  IN  THE  HIGHEST,  AND  ON 
EARTH  PEACE,  GOODWILL  TOWARD 

MEN." 

They  found  his  broken  body  where 
the  savages  had  fled  away  in  terror 
from  the  height.  Isopete  and  Na- 
tana  buried  it  where  it  lay.  Above 
the  grave  as  the  one  last  tribute  the 
Quivira  people  built  up  a  huge  pile 
of  stone.  They  heaped  it  high  above 
their  heads,  in  careful  form,  a  column 
crudely  four-square  to  the  world. 

"So  Good  Heart  told  me  they  do 
in  Spain,"  said  Natana.  "We  shall 
build  here  what  will  stand  forever 
and  all  the  people  may  see  it,  for 
here  it  is  so  high  above  all  land  so 
far  as  an  Indian  may  run  in  a  day 

(137) 


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